The Crow: Cape of Storms
by OnyxDrake
Summary: My own spin on the concept brought to life by James O'Barr and mangled in subsequent movies and spin-offs. This is dedicated to Brandon Lee, my thanks to J O'Barr for alleviating my teenage angst so many years ago.
1. The Lost Rose

Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr

**Disclaimer: **_**The Crow**_** belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenager years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me. **

XXX

The house in Robins Street had an air of neglect about it. It looked like all the others in its row but its shuttered windows, missing a few slats here and there, presented a blank face to passers-by. More weeds pushed up than grass in the small patch of garden out front. The paving was uneven and, frankly, downright dangerous for unwary feet as the pathway led to the front door. A brass doorknocker cast in the shape of a devil glared outwards, green with verdigris. It had been set into a door whose red paint peeled off to reveal a verdant undercoat.

Daphne stood before her new home, turning the key over and over in her right hand. Number twenty-three.

"Oh, it needs a bit of TLC," the estate agent had gushed. "The owner passed away, and the family has decided to rather let the place out until the property market's more favourable."

Daphne had signed on for a three-month lease. The place would do until she was certain that she'd settle in her new job. And, here she stood, with the contents of her life filling one rucksack and three cardboard boxes. As far as she was concerned, Alex could keep the rest. She was through dealing with his shit. Even if it meant that she had to give up on the creature comforts that she had taken for granted, she would start afresh.

Inside, the place was still a mess. This had not bothered her when she'd first dropped in with the estate agent to take a look with the view to renting, but now the disarray niggled at her, not that she'd have much to unpack.

Boxes and crumpled-up newspapers were strewn all the way down the passage, the oak floors scuffed and badly in need of polish. Peeking into the first bedroom, to her right, she wondered what in hell had stained the wood leading in from the doorway. Brown smudges on the wall would most likely come off if she scrubbed but she cursed the fact that she still had to purchase cleaning materials. The past few days had been so hectic.

The second bedroom didn't fare much better. It was so dark and she couldn't open the shutters. She'd opt for the first because at least it had a window seat. She found a dead bird, mummified with age, in the open-plan lounge/kitchen area. She assumed it to be a pigeon and gingerly scooped it up with a torn of piece of cardboard, disposing of it in the veritable jungle that was the back garden.

The broken bulbs of _tik_ lollies crunched beneath her feet – gods truth how she hated druggies – and to think that no one had cleaned up in here since the miscreants had been here. She could only hope that no drug-crazed youngsters tried their luck with her at home. For reassurance she patted her belt knife. Good thing she knew how to use this. She'd gained something from having been with Alex and his incessant self-defence training. This was South Africa, after all. You never knew when and how_ they_ would attack.

A thick layer of dust coated everything. Daphne despaired of ever winning against this. She only started her new job in a week's time. She'd hoped to spend some of this time familiarising herself with Cape Town, but now resigned herself to the distinct possibility that she would be cleaning instead. She did find the remains of a ratty old broom in the kitchen, so she swept out the main bedroom, rolled out her sleeping mat and consoled herself by going out for a meal.

Observatory, nestling on Table Mountain's eastern slopes, was not such a bad neighbourhood. Oh, she'd heard stories from some ex-Capetonian friends up in Jozi that the place had a bad element, with drug dealers and roving gangs, but now, in the late afternoon where the mountain's shadow cast the suburb into a hazy evening, she found nothing untoward in this suburb. Here artists, musicians, hippies, Rastafarians, goths, students and trendy professionals all co-existed in an eclectic mix that seemed to work. Muslims shared _boeka _treats with their Christian neighbours during Eid. Often, Lower Main Road would be shut down for riotous street festivals with live music, falafel stalls and custom-made clothing. This bohemian air that clung to Victorian-age buildings appealed to Daphne, especially after having had to put up with her ex-lover's stuffed-shirt yuppiedom for the past three years.

No one would look askance of her if she walked down to the local SuperSpar without wearing shoes. She mused on all these thoughts as she returned home, munching on a spicy vegetarian roti. She was gratified to meet the neighbours living opposite to her at number twenty-two. A thirty-something gothic couple and their young blond progeny climbed out of a purple Mercedes – an old 1960s model – with black bats stencilled on the bonnet.

"Hi there," Daphne said by way of greeting, walking over.

The man, his long black hair tied back in a ponytail, did not notice her while taking the child inside but the woman, a slight, pale creature with blue, purple and black-dyed hair and a vulpine face, put down her groceries to approach Daphne. She leant over the wrought-iron gate to shake hands, smiling in recognition.

"I saw you come in this afternoon. Welcome to Obz. I'm Tanya."

"Daphne. Hi. Thanks."

"You must just shout if you need help with anything. No one has lived in your place for more than a year and the kids in the neighbourhood have broken in a few times to, well… you know."

She shrugged her narrow shoulders as if she had a reason to apologise.

"I'm not planning on staying forever," Daphne admitted. "Kinda between jobs at the moment so I don't have much cash. I'm starting at a production company in Oxford Street soon. I didn't want to drive so I figured I'd take what I'd get and start looking for a better place once I know the job's gonna work out."

"Ah, all right. _Ja_, that place is like creepy as hell. Richard and me have been living here for like forever. The previous owner was murdered, did your estate agent tell you _that_?"

A sick chill clutched at Daphne's belly. "No way."

"Oh, yes!" Tanya, in true South African fashion, sensed that she now had an opportunity to share another grisly urban tale to virgin ears. "Don't know if you ever heard about the artist Simon de Villiers?"

Daphne shook her head.

"Well, he used to live in that place you're renting. About three years ago, his girlfriend was hi-jacked right in front of the house and, not too long after that, the gangsters came back, to finish him off, 'cos he'd seen everything."

Daphne shivered. "How horrible. So, why…"

Tanya gripped the gate to lean over further and bits of black paint flaked off on her fingers.

"I don't want to be funny," she whispered, "but we think the place is haunted."

"Well, I don't believe in ghosts," Daphne replied; only half convinced. "I've signed a three-month lease and I can't afford to pay the rent on two places so the ghosts will have to put up with me."

"I'm just saying, you know. The last tenant stayed only two nights. Ran screaming out on the last night yelling about terrible nightmares and crows trying to peck out his eyes. That was a year ago. The previous tenant lasted all of six weeks and, before that, the place was empty."

"I'll come and knock on your door if things start flying about of their own accord," Daphne concluded. "Thank you for the heads up."

"Have a good night then," Tanya laughed, turning to walk up to her front door. "Good to meet you. You should drop by for coffee some time."

Daphne grimaced as she went her own way. That was just typical. How often had she embarked on a new venture only to have someone else run it down in some way? She paused to regard the house in the fading light and could not discern anything frightening about it. Yes, the bougainvillea had run rampant over the front patio, spilling its magenta flowers to the ground and yes, the yellow paint on the walls was so rough and peeling it was obvious to anyone that the place had been deserted for quite some time. But, like it or not, it was her home, for now, and she'd have to make the best of it.

Daphne cursed when she flicked the switch and discovered that the lights did not work. Illuminating her way using her cellphone's screen, she stumbled through to the kitchen where she investigated the electricity box. The counter read 00.00. Of all the things to forget, she had not asked Stella, the estate agent, whether or not the place had enough units of electricity and, Stella, in her infinite wisdom, had not given Daphne the electricity card. Daphne would have to wait until morning to sort things out and, thank fuck tomorrow was a Saturday and not a Sunday. There was a chance that someone at the estate agency would be at the office to help her.

Remembering the candles she'd seen in the bathroom and what she hoped was a box that still had some matches still in it, Daphne fiddled until she found three stubs of half-melted wax that she fixed to a broken saucer. She may not be able to brew a cup of tea, but at least she'd be able to unpack some of her things and see that she didn't end up squishing any bugs underfoot.

She encountered the old shoebox when she opened the top cupboard to stow her empty packing cases (she'd need those in a few months' time, in any case). Her fingers brushed against the cardboard and the heaviness of the object told her that it must contain something.

Standing on the tips of her toes, she only just managed to hook the box down. This would be interesting. As a child she'd always loved prying through her grandmother's things when she was sure that the old lady wasn't watching.

On the outside, the box was unremarkable, without any branding indicating what style of shoes it may once have contained. At one point, rats had nibbled at one of the longer sides and her questing fingers encountered the unmistakable texture of photographs among glossy, printed papers. Her interest piqued, she carried the box over to her sleeping mat, where she squatted by the candles, whose light cast a garish, wobbling pool of light in the small bedroom. Hopefully there weren't any spiders or other nasties lurking inside.

Was this left behind by one of the tenants or did this box contain other, darker secrets? Lifting the lid, she scooped a handful of photographs and flyers out. The flyers advertised parties at The Event Horizon and she assumed that it was a local hangout for all the alternative types, judging by the styling. Skulls, intertwined roses and headstones leapt out at her. She made out the shapes of bats and illustrations of gothic waifs. There were flyers advertising body piercing and tattoo parlours. Whomever this belonged to, the person was very much into his or her subcultures. Then, Daphne encountered the photographs. Shot predominantly in black and white, they depicted the same young woman with dark hair and serious eyes. She did not smile often but struck various poses in graveyards, forests or by the sea. Her moon-shaped face made Daphne think of porcelain dolls and this was aided by her dress sense, which seemed to consist mainly of dark hues in silks and lace, her eyes staring, their gaze penetrating through time. Who was this girl and why were there so many photographs of her stuffed into this dusty box?

The last item that her trembling fingers found was a small scrap of canvas about the size of Daphne's palm. It appeared to have been torn from a larger work. All she could make out was a pale, delicate hand clutching a red rose, painted onto a sable background. Every element, down to small drops of moisture on the rose petals, had been painted with attention to detail. On impulse, Daphne raised the scrap to her nose and inhaled the faintest whiff of patchouli.

This must have belonged to Simon, the artist. The girl in the photographs must have been his girlfriend, the one who was hijacked. But then, what had happened to her? Tanya had not mentioned what fate the girlfriend had experienced. Daphne felt a sudden cold thrill travel down her spine. She loved mysteries. She'd visit an internet café the following day. Google would surely shed some light on this. What story lay here for her to unravel?

XXX Footnotes XXX

**South Africanisms:** Here we have a wonderful crime, hi-jacking. It's a combination of armed robbering and kidnapping. Mostly, you get shot, they take your car. Sometimes they take you, your car, rob you and dump you in a neighbourhood far from home, sans jewellery, wallet and valuables. If you're lucky, they just take your car.


	2. The Storm

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

The ground pushes from all sides as he thrashes and churns to the surface, spasms tearing down his spine. He draws that first breath to scream, scream and scream so that the sound ricochets like bullets off the crop of granite and marble headstones that push up around him.

He flops onto his side, shaking and clawing at the earth, fingers gouging out scraps of grass, losing skin on a broken bottle but he doesn't bleed for long. The sawing of crickets makes for an unholy chorus in the dark, where an oppression of cloud pushes down out of the sky and the air is so compressed that it thrums in his ears.

He screams again in fear and confusion, his world tilting and spinning as his eyes fix upon the black bird that flips its wings, hopping from branch to branch in the scraggly acacia, eyeing him, waiting.

_Don't look boy. Don't look._

He can't help himself as the memory rips through his vision. At the first lightning strike that illuminates the darkness, he sees events he'd rather not recall. There is a girl with a moon-shaped face so ethereal and delicate. Her cornflower blue eyes are dark, shadowed in kohl, and she swings in a children's playground, her fingers curling around the chain of the swing.

"Simon… Simon…" she calls, but then the thunder growls and rumbles, shaking his bones.

She is dragged into a battered Toyota by two men; he'll never forget their face-splitting grins and the way their hands grope, so dark against her skin. The car screeches away before he can stumble from his front door, the sound of their laughter still ringing in his ears.

"Simon!" she cries but it is too late.

Another flash, this one leaves a violet afterimage on his retinas. Simon falls against a tombstone topped with a truncated pillar. His legs won't respond to muscle memory. His mouth opens and shuts and convulsions explode through his body.

_You don't want to go there, boy,_ the dry voice rasps in his head.

He clutches the sides of his face. The memories flood back. It is night. The thunder roars, the sound rolling through him when he recalls the door splintering so that the handle is ripped from the wood. Manic laughter. Old faces, faces he had not expected to see again. Doggie Dog gives a gap-toothed grin, reaches into a dark-stained pillowcase to lift out what Simon first assumes to be some sort of fruit, a large fruit. But, fruit doesn't have cornflower blue eyes that have turned milky.

Simon's shriek shatters the night the same way the lightning forks and splinters the darkness. He screams and screams until his throat burns. He does not want to remember but the visions impose themselves on his brain, whether he wants them or not.

Doggie Dog grins his mad dog grin, adjusts his cap and nudges Malles, who flings a soggy cloth-wrapped bundle at Simon. It lands at his feet after leaving an oozing mark on Simon's chest. The fabric folds back to reveal a small body. It could fit in the palm of Simon's hand. There is no mistaking the bulbous head, the tiny, perfectly formed limbs.

"You bastards! You'll all die!"

More laughter ripples as he is shoved hard against the mantelpiece, cracking his head so that he is blinded for a moment or two, his fall of white-blond hair tangling with the fingers that he brings up to protect his face.

Cruel, vicious laughter resounds in his ears, reminding him of a pack of hyenas driving a lion from its kill. Faces flash before him, faces that he'll never forgive; never forget.

He sees Doggie-dog, with his angular scar cutting a diagonal line across his features.

There's Malles, short podgy Malles, who smokes his ganja out in the open out of a bottle neck.

Flash! Pain. A bullet rips through his gut.

Light explodes. He fixes his gaze on Paulo, he of the long fingernails, whose grasping hands have never known their rightful place.

The brothers Niemand and Willem will know and taste the true meaning of fear.

Yes, they'll find out soon enough. A wicked leer tears across Simon's features. Oh, they'll know. Another bullet of memory slams through his chest and he crumples against a granite mausoleum, grunting with the visceral sensation.

_That wasn't all, was it boy?_

He feels the kiss of steel as the knife traces white-hot agony across his throat. He chokes, clutching at his neck with hands that want to suppress the memory.

_It isn't over yet. They must pay. You must have your satisfaction._

"They will look into the Abyss! The Abyss will look back into them!" he screams and knows not from whence the words tumble as he gouges at his face, tracking dirt in parallel lines that are soon washed away by the blessed rain that falls in fat drops.

The falling water does little to soothe the raw wounds in Simon's soul. He knows only torment as he stalks into the night, a lone figure among towering crosses and stone angels with blank eyes.


	3. Lightning Strikes

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that**** sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

It had been easy discounting Tanya's words that first night that Daphne spent at number twenty-three Robins Street. She'd simply been too tired from her long drive the previous day, sleeping unfettered by dreams and the cares of the past few weeks.

Saturday morning saw her rushing about, tracking down the estate agent regarding the missing electricity card and spending far too much money buying in supplies. This could not be helped; she'd have to do the cleaning herself, as well. She did not have the resources to hire a cleaning lady.

At noon, when her back ached from the strain of sweeping, dusting and mopping, her cellphone rang. Alex. Her stomach lurched. Should she answer? She'd had to flee more than a thousand kilometres to escape him. Perhaps she was a fool to think that it would be this easy. She did not answer the call. The device rattled on the kitchen counter, its shrill, insistent rendition of Bach's _Toccata and Fugue in D Minor_ splintering the quiet. Alex could go to hell.

Of all the days to pick for her work, this day was not the best. Ominous clouds blocked out the sun, yet the stifling heat was almost unbearable. Sweat trickled down the small of her back. On days such as these, runaway _veld_ fires were wont to rage. The quality to the light outside seemed milky, leaving dull-edged shadows.

She paused in her work another four times to glare at her phone. Five missed calls. He wasn't taking "no" for an answer.

In spite of the muggy weather, Daphne shivered. Things were not going as planned. She'd had an unsettling experience earlier and Alex's repeated attempts at making contact with her did not help alleviate the agitation that stirred in her belly.

On a whim, she'd visited a small fortune-teller's shop before running her errands. She'd never had her cards read and today had seemed as good a day as any. Besides, the young woman only charged fifty rand for a ten-minute reading. What harm could this do? Daphne needed a bit of direction in her life.

The Tarot reader couldn't have been older than sixteen and Daphne admired the fact that the girl had gone to much trouble to make her space as cosy as possible. They sat on large, brocade-covered scatter cushions. Indian floral-printed drapes hung from the walls and the low table between them had been covered in midnight blue velvet. It was as if the small room held them both in its embrace and even the clear, resinous scent of frankincense did not overpower the moment; Daphne's sinuses would complain most bitterly if that was the case.

Tucking a stray strand of dark brown hair behind an ear, the girl spent some time shuffling her cards, the silver rings she wore on her fingers winking back the light from the rows of candles on the table. As Daphne wondered about what magical pictures existed on the reverse of the cards, the girl before her cried out in alarm, shrinking away as if she beheld an apparition.

Reacting to the young woman's fear, Daphne spun around only to confront… nothing. An empty room.

"What is it?" she demanded, turning to face the fortune-teller, whose skin had paled to alabaster.

"I see death! Death and a rose that weeps blood! A pale man stands behind you. Death is a pale man and blood weeps from his heart! So many tears! So much sorrow!"

The young woman sobbed and covered her face with her hands, curling into herself.

Daphne frowned in disgust. This would be the last time that she'd seek the services of a so-called psychic if this was the melodrama she bought. She'd had her fill of it in Alex's company. Grabbing her handbag, she rose to her feet and turned her back on the girl. When her hand brushed the door's handle, the fortune-teller cried out again.

"Watch out for the black bird and the man that follows in its wake. He seeks death. Death and vengeance!"

"Right…" Daphne breathed and made her way home.

She'd pushed this experience aside until it grew dark but now it looked like a goddamn thunderstorm brewed. No matter how many of these she'd experienced up in Gauteng, she still jumped out of her skin whenever a lightning bolt slammed down, leaving a crackle in the air and the blue smell of ozone in her nostrils.

She _knew _there'd be a storm tonight. Daphne needed no weather forecasts to feel that itchiness in her gut and the overwhelming need to pace. Alex had once dragged her out into the front garden during a big storm and she'd been near catatonic with fear when her hair had begun to stand on end. All the while, Alex had laughed maniacally at her obvious state. Damn him! And damn these fickle Cape Western conditions that manifested Highveld weather in the Mother City. Fuck global warming.

At least she had electricity now, having bought enough units to last her two weeks without worry. She would keep all the lights that had working bulbs on – those in her bedroom and the one in the kitchen.

_F__LASH!!_

Daphne yelped, the shadows retreating and colours bleaching when the first bolt illuminated her world.

_Wait for it. Wait…_

The bass rumble shook her to her core, shivering in her bones. She knew this would be a big storm.


	4. A Stranger in the Night

zen

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

Simon stumbles down a road that still roars in a confusion of lights and engines every time a truck or bus passes.

Cold wet drops beat down on him and he clutches his torso, his skin electrified to the kiss and slither of the rain. Every few metres he stops, cocks his head, his eyes fixed on the black bird that waits for him on top of a streetlight.

He can feel the magnetic call of his destination like a cold fire where his heart used to beat. He sees Ashleigh's eyes, little laughter lines crinkling and the smudge of her eyeliner.

He bumps into objects from time to time, something still the matter with his balance. With every flash of lightning, he pauses, quivering, waiting and, with the rumble, continues on his journey.

Yes. The house; the cottage in Robins Street. That's where he must go. He scents at the phantom smell of turpentine and oil paints. He catches the essence of damask rose, patchouli. Those were Ashleigh's favourites.

"Ashleigh. Ashleigh. Ashleigh," he repeats to himself, over and over again, shaking his head. He won't believe it. He can't believe. Those soft white hands cannot be bone now, can they? What of her laughter? What of her hair, has it fallen to dust?

At a traffic circle where Voortrekker Road meets Lower Main Road in Salt River, he is almost mowed down by a minibus taxi that swerves out of the way, only just missing the pavement. The tote yells obscenities as the vehicle reverses, its suspension protesting with a rusty squeal.

Simon is oblivious to the man. Before him, the bird has landed on the edge of a dustbin and taps at the blue plastic with a hollow tock-tocking. Another flash and rumble. The storm is directly above him.

Why Ashleigh? Why then? She never went out of her way to do anyone harm. She was so soft and innocent. Why did they have to take her away?

Sizzle. Flash! Rumble. Simon sees the moment they met. It's Mozart's in Church Street, in Town, where you can almost forget that you're in a modern city. Here, colonial-era buildings still charm with their echoes of a bygone era. There is still intricate wrought-iron curlicues decorating some edges.

She's sitting opposite him. She smiles, asks to see what he's sketching. He is almost too embarrassed to show her that he's been drawing her for the past half-hour. Most girls would be freaked out. Ashleigh comes home with him that afternoon.

Simon grimaces at the memory. Things should have turned out differently. They will pay for cutting her life short. They will suffer for her hurt three times over.

Simon puzzles at the changes that he sees. Some buildings have vanished, to be replaced with brick-and-chrome monstrosities sporting mirrored plate-glass windows. How can his hometown change so much? He doesn't recall _that_ being there…

He catches sight of himself, shirtless and pale, in a shop window. He doesn't question why he is here. He nods at his hollow eyes, then strides on, oblivious to the people he encounters.

Most give him a wide berth.

All this time the bird, that damned bird, leads him on. But, he doesn't need the bird, does he? He knows, in his gut, in his core, that he must travel south to that little house, his sanctuary.

Perhaps Ashleigh is there, waiting for him, dressed in her velvets and lace. She may be sitting in the back garden beneath the willow, watching the doves fight among themselves over the seeds she has scattered for them. Or, he might arrive home to find her sunk in her dreams, half slipping off the old couch in the lounge. She must be there with her careful smile and the way she walks with her hennaed feet, leading him to their bedroom.

_You're fooling yourself, boy. You're living in the past._

Simon barrels on, though broken glass slices into his feet and the rain erases what little blood escapes. He notes the changes around him. The familiar old rusted Mercedes that used to stand in Bishops Road is gone. Some houses sport new fences.

But what is this? Why is the yard at number twenty-three Robins Street so overgrown? Whose car is this red VW Golf parked in the driveway?

Anger wells up in his throat, anger and confusion.

_This is not your life anymore, boy. Only pain and bad memories lie in wait for you here._

"Shut up!" he hisses, clutching at his head, willing the whispers to stop.

But, it hits him here and he crumples to the pavement. He sees wide cornflower blue eyes and the mouth that he has kissed so many times; a pale face, hands flailing out.

"Simon!" Ashleigh screams.

"I won't let them take you!" Simon returns the cry and his voice resonates in an empty street. Rain hisses down and an orange streetlight flickers out. A block further down, a dog starts up a spate of maddened barking. The crow sits on the skew post box and scrapes the sides of its dagger-like beak on the rusted metal.

He pushes through the front gate, almost pulling it off its hinges in his haste.

"Ashleigh! I'm home!" he calls but the front door won't budge in his grasp.

_Stupid boy. You can never go home,_ says the raspy voice of the bird that glares at him with beady, baleful eyes.

"Fuck you!"

He throws himself against the door. On his first attempt, he bounces back, slipping on the treacherous paving stones. He pauses, gathers his energy, and with a preternatural burst of strength, breaks the front door's handle, falling down the passage and sliding for a good few metres on the wooden floor before reaching standstill.

The air stirs above him as an ebon-feathered shape wings into the kitchen, tap-tapping on the counter.

There is a soft footfall approaching and with lightning-quick reflexes, he leaps to his feet, spinning around to face…

A young woman.

For a second he is tempted to believe that she is Ashleigh and he holds out his hands in brief supplication. No. Her face is too sharp and her cheekbones too angled. She clutches a large knife in one hand. She is taller than Ashleigh and somewhat muscular, her short hair standing at odd angles, as if she's just woken up.

She frowns. "Simon?"

"What have you done with her?" he screams, rushing her, pushing her against the wall and pressing his face against hers so that he can scent her sleep-soured breath.

_Fool boy. What does she know? Can't you see? The living don't need you anymore but there are those who are dead and they just don't know it, yet._

The woman's eyes widen. She has brown eyes. She trembles, so warm beneath his cold skin. He barely feels the prick of the blade as it slides into his belly.

"No!" he screams. "No! No! No!"

He thrusts her from him so that she skids across the passage, sagging against the wall opposite him. He does not hear her call his name again as he rushes out into the rain, his face a rictus of pain and wrath.

His paintings. He sees them still etched in his memory. They, too, are gone. Everything familiar to him has been stripped away. Just that damnable bird shadows him, its wings blades that slice through the air.


	5. Back from the Beyond

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

Dazed, Daphne lay still for a moment, sprawled against the wall.

She could not pin down the flickering thought that whispered that this apparition, this pale creature with his rain-soaked sheath of ghost-white hair, was Simon.

_Death is a pale man…_ the card reader's words still echoed in her skull.

"Bastard…" Daphne managed to mouth, fingers trembling and probing where the base of her skull had connected with the wall.

She'd felt the knife slip in between his ribs but there had been little blood. She'd been aware only of his mad staring eyes with a lambent gleam, green –frost-coated grass.

Even now, she still felt the deathlike cold that had been imprinted on her shoulders when fingers had threatened to crush her joints as if they were no more than sticks. She'd been aware of his strength, coiled, in his whipcord muscles.

With a chill certainty, Daphne knew that this creature was driven by a passion that no ordinary man knew. Sobs racked her body as the initial shock wore off. He'd run from her as if frightened by something, driven, his long hair streaming behind him as he disappeared into the night.

He'd smelt of mould, of something buried for a long time in earth – a dark smell that spoke of cellars and damp.

Daphne shivered. She'd leave now. She'd go, spend the night at a backpackers. She wouldn't subject herself to this madness. Hell! If Alex called now, she'd gladly return to Johannesburg, to his rambling house in Northcliff where grey loeries scolded in the branches of the acacias. She'd put up with Alex but she would allow this craziness that she'd now landed herself in to drag her into its depths, no matter how tantalising the mystery.

Wiping away tears with the back of her hand, she entered her bedroom, at first at a loss at where she'd start. The boxes were high up in the cupboard. She'd have to find packaging tape somewhere and she doubted that they'd stock that at the petrol station up the road at this hour. She caught sight of her reflection in the window, her hair sticking up in crazy angles and her face a mask with shadowed eyes and cheekbones.

Then, anger coursed through her. Why should she run? She'd come this far, uprooting her entire life to have a fresh start. Why must a _man_ be the cause of her failure yet again?

"No, Simon, I'm not scared of you."

In spite of her fright, she craved this danger, this unfinished story that she had stumbled into.

"You won't hurt me. You couldn't hurt me, could you? No, not intentionally because like it or not, I remind you of _her_, don't I? You came here because of her, didn't you? And, I'll bet my last savings that you'll be back. I may not look like her but I represent something of her.

Daphne drew strength from hearing her own voice sound off the walls. No. She'd stay. His grip had been firm but she'd also detected a tremor. He was strung tight, ready to snap at any moment and she suspected that it could go either way. Her situation caused a frisson of excitement.

His capacity for violence was as evident as the pain that radiated from him, but the opposite was also true.

She wouldn't be able to lock her front door properly this night. Daphne was able to screw in the security chain using her car keys but any determined intruder would make short work of her efforts.

She wouldn't be able to sleep, in any case. Instead, she made herself a mug of sweet black coffee and sat on the kitchen counter, her feet tapping against the side. There were still quite a few hours between here and dawn.

"You're a fool, Daphne," she said, feeling silly for talking to herself. She needed to hear a human voice, even if it was her own. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

This was the dead time of the morning, the hours that souls only shared a tenuous link with their bodies. How many old or terminally ill people slipped away in the cold? Daphne shivered, retrieved her sleeping bag then resumed her post, watching the front door, her knife within reach.

She allowed her senses to spread out, picking up minute shifts in air temperature, growing accustomed to the click and pop of the tiny frogs that must call the wet part of the back garden home. A passing car's tyres roared on the wet tar as the vehicle passed on into the distance. Other than that, the silence was overwhelming.

She stood up often to splash cold water on her face, made some more coffee and tried to rub the grit from her eyes. She _should_ go to the police station, but fear of the unknown that stalked these streets kept her pinned inside her house. Simon would be the least of her worries if some drug-addled gangster got to her just as she was at her most vulnerable climbing in or out of her car.

No, she'd wait this night out. _He _would not return this night but for the same measure, _she_ could not go back to sleep. Dawn found Daphne slumped against the kitchen counter, almost prostrate on the floor, her legs tangled in her sleeping bag. Her mouth tasted foul, as if she'd been out drinking the entire night. At first, she could not understand why or how she had found herself in this position.

Then, the events of the previous night flooded back and she sat up with a gasp. His too-white face and rictus of pain flashed in her mind, the phantom crush of his fingers on her shoulders still imprinted on her skin.

"The bastard," she grimaced. She would be heading to the nearest police station as soon as she'd made herself presentable.

To her disgust, Daphne discovered that the nearest station was in Woodstock, about ten minutes' drive away. There'd be no walking. The detritus of Saturday night's revelry was still clearly evident in more than one sorry-looking individual sitting in the waiting area, head in hands.

The constable in charge looked askance of her when she made here statement She'd glossed over the more pertinent details, namely her suspicions as to the true identity of her assailant. Why would everyone think he was dead?

"Number twenty-three, you say?"

"That is correct."

"The house where that artist fellow got himself offed?"

"You know about it?"

"Hell, _ja_, it was ugly. I was there that night. It was my first week in the service. You'll want to speak to Detective Botha. He's handling any cases related to that house. They still haven't convicted anyone."

"Is that so?"

The officer nodded, scribbling a few notes in handwriting so illegible that Daphne kidded herself that only a pharmacist would be able to decipher it.

"Miss Cloete, I will have him call you."

"When?"

He shrugged then, annoyingly looked over her shoulder. "Next."

"But…"

The constable gestured for the bruised-looking woman who reeked of beer, who stood behind Daphne, to step forward.

"He will call you, Miss Cloete. In the meanwhile, I suggest that you find yourself a locksmith and do something about about that broken door of yours. Observatory still has some of the highest incidences of housebreakings in the southern suburbs."

His eyes slide from her face and Daphne knew that he had no more time for her. The bruised woman, hugging her arms to her chest, shoulder past Daphne, who stepped back, unwilling to be touched.

With a last look at the constable, who ignored her, Daphne walked outside.

"Bloody typical," she muttered under breath.

She did, however, take the police officer's advice, even if it cost her more money than she was willing to part with. Daphne had no desire to end up as yet another statistic.

It was late afternoon, an hour after the locksmith had left and she'd been dozing on her sleeping mat, when she heard the polite tap at her door.

She greeted a thin, worried-looking man no taller than herself. He reminded her of her Grade 5 teacher, with his florid complexion, red spiky hair and moustache that would not look out of place on Freddie Mercury.

"Daphne Cloete?"

"Detective Botha, I presume?"

He nodded, a brief gesture. "May I come in?"

He had a heavy Afrikaans accent and carried himself with care, as if he was afraid to offend her or take up too much space.

"Be my guest."

He followed her inside.

"Coffee?" she asked.

"That will be good. Will you tell me what happened?"

"At about three this morning, I woke up. Someone had broken through the front door. It was raining. He slipped and fell. I surprised him. It was, I think, the previous owner of this house. I don't think he was murdered as everyone else seems to enjoy telling me."

"Describe him."

"Tall, skinny guy. Long blond hair, down to here," Daphne gestured to the small of her back. "I think he must be on drugs or something, tik, maybe. He wasn't wearing shoes or a shirt and had been running about in the rain. He got violent with me; thrust me against the wall. He seemed very confused."

"You must be mistaken," the detective replied. "Simon de Villiers is quite dead. Shot twice in the belly and chest. They finished him off by giving him an extra smile, like so."

Detective Botha made a sharp slashing gesture across his throat.

Daphne winced. "I don't understand. I know what I saw."

"Tall, long pale blond hair?

"Yes," Daphne confirmed. "He's definitely still breathing."

"You must be making a mistake," Detective Botha sighed, raising a brow. "There is no way that Simon de Villiers could be walking around and talking after what happened to him. The person or persons who killed him almost severed his head from his body. They cut through his spinal cord."

"I know what I saw, detective. I'm not on any drugs. I haven't touched a drop of alcohol in more than a month. I don't understand what's going on here."

"Neither do I. Will it make you happier if I take some fingerprints, including your own so that we can reconstruct a clearer picture of the events that transpired? We'll probably find that it is one of his fans who's deciding to play a prank on you."

Daphne nodded, a thousand conflicting thoughts crowding in her mind. She'd entertained thoughts that the artist had survived somehow. Perhaps he'd been recovering. It's easy for people not to have the full story. She considered the _sense_ of the man. All her instincts screamed at her, telling her that she was ignoring a fundamental clue.

The, the truth of it hit home. Her knife! The blade had sunk to the hilt into his vitals. There had not been much blood; he had not even flinched. That was just not natural!

Her stomach clenched. The detective most likely already thought her mad. Should she tell him about the fact that she had stabbed Simon and that he had not even noticed it? No. She'd keep that to herself.

The man hummed as he busied himself lifting fingerprints. He saw dozens, if not hundreds of gruesome crimes every month. This tale of horror was but one of many. Why should she burden him with her worries?

"Look, Miss Cloete, I really think you were mistaken. There are some very odd people living here in Observatory. Simon had quite a cult following among the artsy bunch. I really suspect it may be one of his friends. No one has lived here for a long period since the murder and it's most likely the friends going out of their way to make some form of statement about his life and death. He was like that, apparently."

"Thank you, detective, but will you let me know if you hear anything further?"

"Of course I will," he smiled. "If it is having some impact on you, I will let you know. Now you just get some rest and if the guy comes back, you call the police or, better yet, call me. Here is my cellphone number."

He handed her a slightly crumpled white card. It read: _Hannes Botha, counselling services and spiritual advice._

"I thought you were a cop," Daphne frowned at him.

The man shrugged. "There are times when my duty calls me to do more than I am paid to do. Many of my colleagues have need of some sort of comfort. It stands to reason that I should be able to offer the same services to civilians when I see that there is a need."

"Thank you," was all that she could reply. Even though she had no great love for religious types, it felt good that someone still cared.

They made small talk while Detective Botha finished his mug of coffee. He seemed interested in news from Gauteng and, in a typically South African fashion, spoke at length about soaring levels of crime.

When he drained the last of his mug, he thanked her: "You've been very helpful Miss Cloete. I will keep you informed but may I suggest that you contact an armed response company and see about having an alarm with a panic button installed. You can hire this from one of the companies and you need not pay an exorbitant amount."

"I will," she lied. She barely had money to feed herself for the month lying ahead, let alone investing in security.

"Oh, I don't mind if you know, but Simon did, or rather still does have a brother. Brendan is his name. He has been most helpful with my investigations. If you have any doubts about Simon's death, you can speak to him, but be tactful. He runs a gallery on Long Street, not quite sure of the name but it's about a block down from a club called The Event Horizon. Just be tactful, please."

"Of course," Daphne replied.

"I bid you good day, miss. Hopefully we will speak soon."

A brother then? She locked the door behind the man. This would be tantalising. But why would he tell her? Cops weren't known to be too forthcoming with their information. There'd be no harm in looking. After all, she didn't have to talk to Brendan.


	6. The Event Horizon

Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

It is late on the Sunday afternoon when the black bird leads Simon to The Event Horizon where the building hulks in its ebon glory on the corner of Long and Shortmarket streets in the Cape Town CBD.

Simon has been sitting in the minaret of the old Victorian building opposite for a number of hours, watching. Although it is a Sunday, there is still some activity here, although not of the kind that could be considered legal in the strictest sense.

He has seen two black SUVs with dark-tinted windows pull up and then leave during his vigil, disgorging and then collecting individuals who, in his shattered memories, would not be following the type of career paths that you learnt about in college.

Simon is assaulted by the memories of this place, the ever-present throb, in his dreams, of the music, the flashing strobe and cold bitter beers drunk beneath the freeform tent that shelters the balcony.

He painted murals inside, didn't he? He attempts to dredge up the memory but that thread is slack. All he sees is faces and painted smiles.

_You're wasting your time, boy,_ says the bird perched on his shoulder.

"What do you know?" Simon mutters, pulling the leather jacket close against his chest.

He shivers but the cold is not on the outside. Earlier this day, when he'd been wandering, he'd bumped into a biker at a service station.

"What do you want, boy?" the man had roared, shoving at Simon. "You wanna cruise for a bruising? You just touch my bike and I'll show you, you junkie piece of trash!"

Even now, Simon cannot recall the anger that had flamed up inside him, a wellspring of atrocity that had, up until now, been suppressed.

He'd growled, a low, feral sound, and had leapt at the man, pinning him against a wall, in spite of their disproportionate sizes.

Simon does not remember taking the man's jacket with its Lilith's Dogs colours emblazoning the back with the picture of a night-haired woman, her raven wings spread behind her.

Instead, Simon stares at the source of his discontent, the building with its dark walls wherein he spent so many drunken nights.

He can still catch the after-burn of the flashing strobe; the way Ashleigh would sway on the music's tide, her long hair a curtain of shadow. He sees the ghosts of her hands – pale spiders – reaching up to collect skeins of light that she weaves as she threads between the dancing bodies.

_You're wasting your time, boy,_ the bird rasps. _You're losing focus._

Simon gasps. His eyes snap open.

"Gavin, you fiend. You know something, don't you?" he whispers, taking up the slack.

_Good lad. You're starting to use your grey matter. So, it hasn't atrophied in the grave, has it?_

Simon shifts with a creak of leather, letting himself down the side of the building where there are more than ample handholds for a determined climber.

He startles two streetkids, who run up the road emitting shrill shrieks. The bird swoops low, its wings disturbing the air above his head when he crosses Long Street, paying no heed to the changing traffic lights and the silver Mercedes that almost runs him down. He is oblivious to the fact that the driver flips him the bird and mouths obscenities.

Simon's grey eyes are focused only on the Shortmarket Street entrance where a tall blond man leans against the wall by the door. The bouncer eyes Simon with disdain, a sneer distorting his features.

"What do you want, punk? Club's not open right now. Clear off."

The man spares a glance for the bird perched on the rubbish bin attached to a lamppost then shifts his attention back to Simon.

"Methinks it is in your best interest to let me pass," Simon hisses through gritted teeth while he clenches and unclenches his fists.

The bouncer laughs. "My fuck! You're actually serious, you little twat. Get lost! Scram!"

Simon intercepts the hand that snakes out to push him off the steps. The doorman's eyes widen when he realises the undeniable strength in the smaller man's grip.

Simon passes on one of his maniacal grins. "Hurts, doesn't it? Will you let me pass now or must I break the fingers in your hand in alphabetical order? It's your choice."

The man grunts and pulls away from his assailant. Simon lets go, watching how the bigger man rubs his knuckles.

_Pierre is just doing his job,_ states the bird. _The one you are looking for is upstairs._

Unable to prevent the laughter from escaping, Simon takes the stairs to the offices on the second floor three at a time, startling a young woman on the landing of the first floor.

She flees, screaming down the passage. Simon pauses for a moment, cocking his head to listen to her departure before the final few leaps that bring him to the second floor. He doesn't remember ever being this far into the building and he treads with care down the long, narrow passage, wary of squeaky floorboards that may betray him, in spite of the carpet running the length of the floor.

The bird flies on ahead, leading the way to his target with unerring accuracy. No sooner does his hand touch the brass door handle, when the door is jerked from his fingers, revealing the face of Gavin.

Gavin has not changed much. His hair is still long and scraped back in a greasy ponytail. He still shaves his sideburns into points that run along his jaw-line. Granted, there are a few more crow's feet and his teeth have a few more chips, but it is still the man he remembers lording it over his own private domain.

"You!" is all that Gavin is able to utter, the blood leaving his face while he stares at Simon, stark terror etched on his features.

"Yes! Me!" Simon exclaims, pushing the man back into his office. "Are you afraid?"

"But… But…"

"I'm dead, yes. But I walk, talk and I have ways of making _you_ sing."

He grasps the club owner by his throat. Although muscular, Gavin is no match for Simon, who thrusts him against the wall, tearing posters that have been pasted there for many years.

"What did they do to Ashleigh?" Simon growls, his fingers finding a tighter grip on the man's neck.

Gavin's eyes bulge. "Who is she?"

"You know her. You tried to take her from me one night, lured her to one of the back rooms. It stands for reason that you'll know something of what happened to her shortly thereafter."

A small whimper escapes from Gavin. He clutches at the wall, desperate for purchase. Simon presses his face against Gavin's, his smile a silent snarl.

"Ash… Ashleigh's dead," Gavin stutters.

"I know that, you fool!" Simon roars, throwing the man so that he falls across his desk, scattering papers and empty beer-bottles.

"Then why are you here? I didn't kill her, I swear!"

Simon lunges for the man, grabbing him by his shirt so that the purple satin rips with a wet tear.

"I'm here because I know that you have a very good idea who the real culprits are."

"I swear! I don't know anything!"

"You lie!" Simon's fingers tighten on muscle and skin. His face is pressed to close to Gavin's that he can examine every pore of the man's skin. "Now, I'm going to ask you one more time, who should I be paying a visit to and where have they buried Ashleigh's mortal remains? You've been there, on a number of occasions. I feel I should know the place…"

Gavin gulps, opening and closing his mouth without emitting a sound – more fish than man. "P-p-p-p-Plumstead c-c-c-c-cemetery, on the side closest to Victoria Road, near the burnt pine."

"Much better," he relaxes his grip but pushes the man further across the table so that his feet leave the floor. "Now, about the gentleman visitors. They have worked for you on occasion."

"I haven't seen them in months! I promise!"

Gavin lets out a squeak as Simon relieves him of his knife. The weapon drops to the stained carpet.

"Now, now, Gavin. That won't work. You've bad manners trying to stab your visitors."

He sends the man reeling across his office, upsetting a chair, a water cooler and several paper-filled boxes.

"Let's try again. I'll make it easy for you. Where. Is. Doggie-dog?"

Gavin crouches in a spreading puddle of cold water. Blood oozes in a slow trickle from a gash on his forehead.

"Doggie-dog and his gang no longer work for me. They haven't for more than a year. They made trouble with one of my suppliers. As far as I know, they're operating on Stampie's behalf out in the south peninsula, there by Ocean View. That's all I have, man. I swear."

Simon crouches before him, flipping the blade dropped earlier from hand to hand. _Slap, slap_… the steel sounds on skin. Gavin is too afraid to break eye contact.

_He's not lying, boy,_ the bird says, alighting on Simon's shoulder.

Simon narrows his eyes, then laughs, giving Gavin a careless kick when he rises to his feet.

"Ashleigh always said you were a little too scaly for her liking. It wasn't wise offering her that gram of coke. You should have known that she was not like the other girls, lifting her skirts for a snake like you."

With that, Simon leaves a shivering Gavin to his own devices, stepping out into the lengthening shadows to become one with the growing darkness.


	7. Brother Dearest

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenager years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

A tendril of sunlight that knifed through a gap in the shutters woke Daphne up. She had not slept well, her dreams troubled by birds with sharp beaks pecking at her and flying at her face. The hum of traffic spoke of Monday morning rush hour and, for once, she was glad that when she started her new job, she would not have to join the daily migration to and from the city centre.

Half-past eight, her cellphone displayed. Today she _would_ venture forth into Town. She had breakfast at a coffee shop on lower Main Road, seeing how far she could nurse her café latte and croissant. The waitress had been kind enough to oblige her by bringing her a phone book.

"De Villiers, AC; De Villiers B." She had three possibilities that had initials starting with "B". She'd expected more than ten. Great. That narrowed down her options. She didn't want to have to waste any more precious airtime on this than she'd have to.

The phone of her first option rang without being answered or clicking through to an answering machine. She jotted that number down then dialled the next. A woman answered. No. Her name was Bernice and she didn't know any Brendans.

Daphne apologised and hung up. She prayed that Brendan did indeed possess a landline. She hoped that his number was listed and that this last chance would deliver results. Swallowing hard, she dialled the remaining number. The phone rang twice.

An old man spoke. "Brendan the gallery owner? Oh goodness gracious, you're speaking to the wrong Brendan then! I get so many people looking for that man and it's such a pain!"

"Thank you. You don't happen to have his number, do you?"

"Goodness, girl! Do I sound like Telkom's telephone directory? All I know is that he has a shop in Long Street."

Without so much as a good bye, he put down the receiver.

"Friendly chap," Daphne muttered.

Should she drive through to the CBD or catch the train? Fuel was expensive, yet she didn't relish the prospect of public transport. She could continue her sleuth-work over the phone but a restlessness stirred inside her. She still had plenty of time to kill before she started her new job. What harm could it do to drive to Town? Sure, parking would be a bitch but if she left her car up in Gardens, she could make a day of it, revisiting all her favourite spots. Hell, she'd buy peanuts and feed the squirrels in the Company's Gardens if she still had time. She hadn't done that since she'd been in school.

Besides, the exercise might even work out some of the knots in her back. She had more than ample darkness to haunt her once the sun set. Something told her that Simon would favour the shadows.

Seeing the city centre's colonial-era architecture and browsing through Long Street's dusty second-hand bookstores made Daphne glad of her decision to walk. She'd parked high up in the Bo Kaap overlooking the city bowl, where the multi-coloured houses of the city's erstwhile slaves clung to the slopes of Lion's Head.

She'd walked through Tamboerskloof, enjoying the sunshine that eased some of the anxiety out of her with its warmth. It would be too hot to be out-of-doors soon, however. The instant she hit Long Street's head, where the indoor swimming baths lurked, she'd kept her eyes open for art galleries. Most of the retail outlets facing the street were small boutiques or speciality eateries. She passed cafés where tourists idled over frothy lager. A blonde with dreadlocks leaned over the balcony of the Long Street Backpackers, speaking loudly into her cellphone in German.

Pitch-skinned Congolese businessmen jabbered away in French to their associates, walking along the pavement as if they already owned it. A girl sprouting a metallic crop of multiple facial piercings smoked a cigarette while perched, stick-thin, on the edge of a chair, tattooed with spider-web designs down both arms.

All these, and more, Daphne encountered on her walk, in no hurry yet to find her destination. She paused for a moment, harbouring some disquiet while she stood outside The Event Horizon. This was the place advertised on those fliers she'd found inside the shoebox.

The building, only with two floors rising above her, had been built some time during the late nineteenth century. It had a balcony overlooking Long Street and had been painted black with a few purple flourishes to accent its brooding dominance over this part of the street. The last time she'd been here, the place had been a sports bar and had been painted a violent shade of violet.

A row of gleaming chrome motorcycles stood parked down the side entrance in Shortmarket Street.

_Uggh. Bikers._

Daphne shuddered and continued her exploration. Most of the galleries, it appeared, were located at the lower end of Long Street, closer to the Foreshore. Here there was more evidence of the revitalisation of the city centre, where the great glass-plated monstrosities that held sway over the Mother City rose to dizzying heights above her.

After inquiring at two galleries, she found the one that she'd been seeking. Mantis Art and Framery was situated on the corner of Long and Castle streets, taking up two floors where a backpacker's lodge used to operate. The building had been painted a light green ­­– the kind that made Daphne recall a particular shade she associated with municipal rest camps while on holiday in small towns during the seventies. The fine floral mouldings adorning the exterior had been highlighted with a lighter tint of the same colour. Evaluating the overall effect critically, Daphne did not find it displeasing.

Inside, on the ground floor, white walls were spotlit with clever ambient lighting, revealing large canvases spattered with bright primary colours in abstract splashes of paint.

_Ugh. Contemporary art._

She stood for a moment, undecided, then crossed the threshold.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" A young blonde woman dressed in a black, form-hugging pinstripe suit asked, looking up from where she'd been engrossed in her typing.

_Mmmmm, they can afford the latest Macintosh computers with flat screens. There's money here._

"I'd like to speak to Brendan de Villiers. This is his gallery, right?"

"Yes, ma'am. He is currently busy with someone but you can go up to the upstairs showroom. His office is the second door on the left. He won't be long, I'm sure."

Daphne mumbled her thanks and climbed up the creaky staircase that wound to the first floor, each footstep pressing into ancient wood to produce the kind of squeak that would raise the dead.

She paused when she rounded the first twist. There, hanging from the wall, was a painting unlike the contemporary pieces that she loathed so much.

_I don't care what they say, it doesn't make those things art._

The painting she beheld, rendered in delicate strokes, was vastly different. A portrait of two people, a man and a woman, gazed down upon her. She wore a scarlet dress, low-cut to display pert cleavage. _He_ stood behind her, with one proprietary hand placed, with tenderness, upon her shoulder. A mane of silver-white hair haloed his face.

_How beautiful. How ill fated and how sad._

It was _them_, Simon and his lover. She recognised the woman's round face, her wide staring eyes and dark hair, coiled down to her waist. She stared outwards, as if she could see through space and time from within this image frozen upon canvas. A small brass plaque had been affixed to the wall beneath the painting.

It read: _Dedicated to Simon de Villiers and Ashleigh Copeland._

Overhearing voices that had been raised in anger and, her curiosity piqued, Daphne climbed up the remaining steps to listen at the office door, which stood ajar. In case anyone happened by, she pretended to be engrossed in examining the detailed stitches of an enormous, multicoloured abstract tapestry.

_It's amazing what they'll display as art these days._

With growing interest, she listened to the argument that took place.

"I fucking saw him! I swear!"

"Don't talk crap, Gavin. You've been taking too much coke. You're getting way too paranoid."

The man who answered to the name of Gavin sounded absolutely terrified, his voice quivering and high-pitched. "You gotta _do_ something!"

"I don't 'gotta' do anything. I'll look into this. If you're still walking, talking and breathing now, then I don't know what your problem is. Now, do us both a favour and get lost before someone who knows you sees you here."

Daphne felt icy fear grip her heart. What was she doing here? The door to the balcony stood open and she cat-footed her way there as fast as possible so that when the man she assumed to be Gavin stumbled out, it appeared that she had been standing there all along.

_What a miserable-looking man._

He was small, shorter than her, yet had a wiry build. Dressed in tight leather trousers and a Jack Daniels T-shirt, he made her think of any number of hoodlums she'd socialised with when she'd still been studying at college.

He cast a suspicious glance in her direction, frowning, before leaping down the stairs, his ash-blond ponytail whipping behind him.

"Can I help you?"

Daphne started. How had Brendan, for she assumed it to be him, gotten so close to her without her noticing? He stood approximately four metres from her.

"Yes, hi," she stammered, stepping forward with her hand outstretched.

His lips pulled back in a sneer and he glanced down at her hand but did not move to grasp it.

_What a bastard._

He wasn't that much taller than her. Whereas the Simon in the picture and whom she was so sure she'd encountered was tall and willowy, Brendan, apart from a similar light complexion, tended towards portliness. He wore caramel-coloured chinos with a white shirt tucked into the waistband.

_Mmmmm, croc leather belt, a man with expensive tastes._

"You're not here to buy art, are you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

_Daphne, Daphne, Daphne. Now this has not been one of your brightest ideas._

"No," she admitted. "I… I recently started renting the house of the late Simon de Villiers, your brother, I believe?"

He stiffened. "What of it?"

Daphne developed the distinct sensation that she stood before a dangerous person – coiled like a cobra, ready to strike – one of Alex's ilk. She decided to come clean. It was obvious that he _knew_ that she'd overheard the conversation between him and Gavin. Who wouldn't have? Gavin had almost been shouting.

"I came up the stairs. I couldn't help but overhear…"

"And?"

"I-I-I think that your friend Gavin is telling the truth. I saw Simon the other night…"

"What?" The colour drained from the man's ruddy features. He slicked a hand through his short-cropped hair, hair the same shade as Simon's.

"He came to the house on Saturday night," Daphne started, "during that storm. He seemed confused. Looked terrible, his face all white and streaked with dirt. I don't think he died. He must have been kidnapped or something. He needs help."

Brendan stood stock-still, stared at her, then turned on his heel to pace towards the balcony.

"I'm sorry if I upset you… I'll go. I won't bother… I just thought…"

She did not know what she thought anymore. Detective Botha's admonishment for her to be tactful rung in her ears, making her face burn with shame.

_Oh, now you've done it, Daphne._

She turned to leave.

His voice rang out, echoing in the empty space. "Wait!"

Daphne stopped, her heart hammering.

"Here's my card. Call me the next time he visits. But don't tell him that you've spoken to me. Try to keep him there until I arrive."


	8. Hunting Dogs

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenager years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

Simon steals the motorbike parked outside The Event Horizon. The bike's owner has left it unattended, busy inside chatting up one of the ladies who currently holds his attention. Like the fool he is, he left the key with Pierre the doorman, thinking he would keep an eye on things in his absence.

The bird alerts Simon to the possibilities and he rides off, the front wheel of the chopped hog rising from the ground as he pulls away.

Pierre shakes his head. He isn't getting involved; he knows that there is something very wrong with this entire situation when the blond man smiles and winks after thanking him for the keys.

Simon's first impulse is to hit the N1 heading north, away from everything, away from the city filled with its pain and ghosts. The crow gives a raucous croak and nestles tighter against the man's throat. Simon doesn't flinch when tiny obsidian claws dig into his skin.

The bike's engine throbs between his legs, alive, bringing an idiot grin to his face. He rides until he reaches Paarl, roaring through the near-deserted streets until he reaches the round granite extrusions of Paarl Rock. _Pearl Mountain. The Pearl._ This was one of her favourite places, even if it represented a bastion of Afrikanerdom.

_This won't achieve anything, boy,_ the bird says. _You're wasting time with memories._

"Shut up, bird, I'm not interested in what you have to say," Simon mutters.

He pushes the bike off the road, setting it up behind some bushes and walks the last hundred metres to the gate where the security guard already rests with his head on his arms.

Sniffing, Simon catches a whiff of brandy. He smiles, then flicks his mane of silvery-white hair, intent on his goal. Climbing the concrete steps, he can make out the crazy contours of the monument, an absence of colour or light against the star-punctured sky. The moon has not yet risen and he takes his sweet time sauntering up the causeway.

"You're not happy about flying around at night," he comments to the bird.

The crow emits a lonely _kraak_, flipping its wings, its claws digging into the leather of the stolen jacket.

"Well, fuck you too, buddy. I gotta do this. I must see this place one last time. I must remember why I am going to do all the things that I must do."

The bird seems satisfied by this. Simon spends an hour wandering around the monument, revisiting the spaces, nooks and crannies they'd spent time investigating so many years past. Instinct guides him, his fingers touching, transmitting the memories of skin and sensation. Above him, the stars spin at a dizzying height, the concrete spires pointing accusing fingers at the constellations turning above them.

The artificial stream feeds water that splashes with a wet gurgle, the moist scent fresh in his nostrils and, always, the omnipresent choir of crickets.

For a long time, all he does is lie on the grass, his fingers gripping into the soil to release the dusty earth. There is so much that must happen before he finds closure, his heart's erratic beat urging him, no, driving him, as if some hook has embedded itself in his flesh.

No rest for the wicked and no rest for the dead. He holds himself still. It is not necessary for this body that shudders with a garish semblance of life to breathe, to bleed, yet it does. He can lie as still as death but cannot escape that desire to move, to seek out those who have wronged him and, oh, God, Ashleigh.

His blood might run cold but the tears that sting his eyes burn with an unquenchable fire. Oh God. Ashleigh. What have they done to you? There is no one but the black bird that holds its vigil, to hear Simon moan, a creature in acute pain.

When the sun rises, the first hint of dawn approaches with the greying of the sky above the ragged teeth of the Du Toitskloof Mountains that stand in sharp relief against the sky. Like a scattering of gleaming jewels, the electric lights shimmer and wink. The sky shifts to the softest rose before gold, then almost green before the turquoise of another cerulean summer's day.

Simon wishes that the night would never end. Daylight is too harsh, too revealing. He cannot hide his secrets.

The crow hops across the grass, incongruous among the rock pigeons searching for something to eat. The black bird pauses to look up at him as if to say: _Are you quite done feeling sorry for yourself?_

The old restlessness has returned. He must move. He knows where he must go; is not quite sure how he'll find the people he is looking for. As much as the memories of this place sustain him, whispering of the good times spent here, he must depart.

"You coming?" he asks the bird. It rasps out a query but nonetheless rises in a flutter of pigeons to wing its way to its spot on Simon's shoulder.

Simon pauses by the gate to take a deep breath, not so much to feed starving lungs but to learn what scents ride on the slight breeze that shifts in the trees. He strides past a startled security guard who backs off with wide white eyes when the black bird caws and flaps on its perch. Simon is oblivious to the man's fear, taking the stairs three at a time as he makes his way down to the stolen chopper.

"You'd better hold tight, birdie," he mutters to the crow. "I think this puppy goes faster than the crow flies."

The bird makes a low purring noise in the back of its throat, nuzzling closer to Simon's neck.

"And here I was always afraid of bats getting stuck in my hair," he smirked. "Damn fucking bird."

The engine roars into life and the dead man joins the stream of traffic along the N1 returning to the city, his hair a white-blond pennant behind him as he rides.

Avoiding the city centre, he catches the M5 that takes a rough curve along the bulk of Table Mountain. He loses the traffic at the Settler's Way intersection. He mustn't waste time and yet, when he passes the Plumstead turnoff, he has the strong desire to turn in that direction, to search for Ashleigh's final resting place, to pay homage to the one woman whom he can say ever truly possessed his heart and who would have been the mother of his child.

Many people drive past Ocean View. Not many _whiteys_ like Simon would venture in. Back when the apartheid-era government reckoned it would stick some coloured folk as far away from so-called "civilised" white people, they'd settled on Ocean View, halfway to Cape Point and with miles and miles of open land to buffer more _respectable_ neighbourhoods such as Kommetjie or the isolated homesteads of Scarborough and Misty Cliffs.

Those self-righteous fools hadn't thought that in a scant three decades the city's population would explode. Now, middle class suburbia brushed shoulders with townships and yes, Ocean View, with its rows and rows of peak-roofed rectangular apartment blocks seemingly held together with strings of washing flapping like flags in the southeaster.

Ocean View too, has seen the bounty of South Africa's post-election boom. The flats, although still the heart of the old _lokasie_, are now surrounded by myriad private homes and government-sponsored RPD dwellings. Some are painted in a multitude of bright shades; some are still grey cement. It's not uncommon to see a Beemer parked outside a house that barely qualifies as a tin-plated lean-to.

Mangy hounds chase children. Three gangster types give appreciative whistles at some of the local talent. Old grannies congregate beneath a windblown umbrella pine to trade gossip. A taxi driver leans out of his battered minibus, to speak to two young boys on the way to school.

_You gonna stick out like a hand of sore thumbs if you walk in here during broad daylight, boy,_ the bird says, its small claws making tiny scratch-marks in the leather of Simon's jacket.

Simon has parked beneath a stand of pines above the neighbourhood. From here, he has a view that stretches all the way across the beach to Noordhoek, where the mountain's granite feet kiss the sea. At any other time he would have been admiring the curve of the mountain range or the clarity of the sky. He ignores the fresh resin of sun-warmed pine needles.

Now, his eyes narrow and he stares at the grid of streets below him, unsure of how to progress. His instinct tells him that his quarry will only surface later during the day. The crow shares this opinion, leaving its perch to settle itself in the boughs above him.

The mark of any accomplished predator is the hunter who is patient, who can wait for the right moment when his prey is at its most vulnerable and is unaware. Sometimes a predator can hide in plain sight, lulling its victim into a false sense of security. At around noon, the trio of young boys who are playing truant, see Simon and chatter among themselves, wisely electing to keep their distance from the weird white man.

He watches them with a steady gaze. They know. The type of prey that he is hunting comes to life after dark. Without warning, the black bird launches itself from the tree, its wings flicking, cutting through the air.

Oh, it knows, all right. Simon experiences the drunken sensation of seeing through the eyes of the bird. They read from each other.

_No, no, left there, likely suspects on that corner by the café._

Without its usual carping, the crow complies, its eyes drinking in detail. It lands, with a flutter, upon a broken picket fence, eyeing the three gangsters who lean against the sides of the caravan that now serves as a spaza shop. None of them bring any names to light but he knows their type, the kind who think nothing of hurting, taking by force that which wasn't theirs to start with.

_There's no point in wasting time. We can ask some questions._

Simon grunts, satisfied. They will do. This is a small neighbourhood. Chances are that someone here knows exactly who Doggie-dog is and where he is. Pocketing the chopper's key, he climbs off the bike. He pauses for a moment to stretch, cat-like, before padding down the incline, stepping over broken bottles, rusted cans and other urban debris.

_Death is a pale man,_ a voice whispers. Simon's smile is chilling.

Spaza shop: a small informal shop selling basics such as milk, bread, cigarettes, chips, sweets and chocolates, usually operating from someone's home in a low-income neighbourhood or township in South Africa.


	9. On the Trail of Something Elusive

Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenager years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

Something about Brendan ate at Daphne's mind. Her initial feeling about the man was that she didn't like him, didn't trust him. There was something menacing in the way that he had snuck up on her, looming over her.

When she put her finger on it, she _knew_ it was because she didn't feel safe. She'd half expected him to threaten her in some way. Why had that look of fear crossed his face when she had mentioned seeing his allegedly dead brother?

Something else was going on here and she meant to find out. Instead of driving home, she stopped in at an internet café up in Gardens, ordered herself a café latté and paid in advance for an hour of time on one of the machines.

She typed in Brendan's details and was surprised by the plethora of sites and stories linked to the man's name.

_Gallery owner launches successful venue._

_Auction of late brother's art amounts to millions._

_Tragedy strikes artist family's ranks._

_Gallery exhibits final masterpiece of late artist._

Most of the blurb continued in a similar vein and it didn't take Daphne much to guess that when Simon had been removed from the picture, Brendan had had much to gain from the winding up of his estate.

But, Simon wasn't dead, was he?

_The knife slips into his side, up to the hilt. He doesn't even flinch. There isn't much blood._

Gooseflesh raised on Daphne's arms. She couldn't dispel the sensation that there was something more to this entire story.

_It's not possible!_

She shook her head, rubbing vigorously at her arms. She sipped from her café latté, savouring the creamy flavour, sighing and sitting back in the chair. She typed Simon's name into the search engine. His case had not been widely publicised. Strange. The gist of the articles posted online spoke only of the brutal murder of him and his fiancée. What made her gut churn the most was reading about how Ashleigh had died, her head severed, the child that had been quickening in her womb ripped from her flesh.

_DNA tests confirm that, although similar, the child's father was not the late Simon de Villiers. At time of going to press, the deceased's brother was not available for comment._

_The bastard!_ Daphne had to pause. This was so goddamned obvious!

Something about Brendan bugged her but it all seemed connected somehow, Brendan, the murders, the unborn child. She couldn't prove anything and, indeed could only have a wild guess whether or not Simon would visit again.

She did find visuals of a memorial page laid out and maintained by one of Simon's fans. The gallery page had many photographs – many of Simon, alive, in his element, captured at The Event Horizon all painted up with doll-like Ashleigh by his side. A small knot of fear caught in her throat when she saw a photograph of the house that she now rented – taken during better times – but she couldn't help the stirrings of sadness when encountered the photograph taken at Ashleigh's memorial service.

She had been buried – and this Daphne found odd – at Plumstead Cemetery, whereas her lover, it read, had been buried in Maitland. Strange. The man standing at her graveside during the funeral was none other than Brendan – and he had the good grace to _look_ bereaved. In the photograph he was not the cold hard man she'd met in the art gallery earlier this day.

He'd dressed in a long black trenchcoat, holding his hands clasped before him. He stood, eyes downcast, his then long hair falling in a bob to cover his ears. Next to him, a priest garbed in a black cassock read from a bible. The photograph focused on Brendan and the open grave – she could not make out the faces of the other people and he stared down at the hole in the ground where flowers wreathed a white coffin.

Next was a photograph of Simon's tombstone, a simple granite rectangle inscribed only with his name, his date of birth and date of passing.

_But I've seen him. He walks and talks. How can they be so sure that he is dead?_

She glanced outside. It was still light. She checked out a few more pictures that fans had posted of Simon's grave. If she remembered correctly, the burnt-out chapel in the background was closer to the Salt River side. It wouldn't be safe for her to go for long but she _had_ to see his final resting place.

The shadows already lengthened when her car's tyres crunched onto the gravel of the parking lot.

_I won't be long._

She couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear. The informal settlement under the bridge hadn't been there the last time that she'd been here. She hadn't liked the look of some of the ragged men who'd been lazing in front of the shacks. The southeast blew dust into her eyes and mouth and she caught the rotten whiffs of something that she assumed to be rendered fat from the abattoir, turning her stomach with its brown fetid odour. For kilometres the bone yard stretched, with field after field sprouting crops of marble and granite: angels, truncated pillars and over-ornamented vases littered the landscape.

What few trees grew here were either gall-infested Port Jacksons or scraggly thorn trees and cypresses ­– all leaning away from the prevailing wind.

She cast a nervous glance towards the bent old man who pushed his battered shopping trolley down an aisle not too far from her. The wheels squeaked. He nodded and waved and she prayed that he did not approach her. She had not brought her knife with her. Daphne prayed that there would be no trouble with any gangsters or would-be assailants.

Out here the wind never ceased gusting, making her cold in spite of the sunshine. Cars roared past on Voortrekker Road, carrying away people oblivious to the small drama that she partook of.

Ahead, the blackened rafters of the burnt-out chapel stuck out, like ribs. The building had been in a sorry state when she'd last seen it as teenager. She was dumbfounded that, after so many years, no one had lifted a finger to fix it. Old memories welled up – some bittersweet – of the madness she'd embarked upon all those years ago.

Keeping the building in her field of vision, she walked between the rows of headstones. The angle – just right ­– she found the plain, squared-off headstone. Her eyes flicked over the engraved words, then stopped on the churned-up earth and the hole, where soft sand had crept to fill the space. Empty. Like some _thing_ had clawed its way out of the ground. Her blood turned to ice.

_No! This can't be! No one returns from the dead! It cannot be!_

Her knees shook and Daphne had to sit down, dizzy, nauseous.

Above, a lone crow circled, cawing, a sound that rasped through the very fabric of her being.

_Get a grip, girl. You're losing it!_


	10. Truths and Tellings

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenager years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

No closer to his goal than before, Simon mounts the hog, gunning its engine before shattering the stillness of the night. Lemmetjie bled well. Oh, he could squeal and squeal, like a stuck pig when Simon had grabbed him and pressed the broken bottle against the acne-scarred skin of his face.

The razor-sharp glass had parted the skin and something about the blood oozing in a fat red line had prompted Simon to tab two fingertips into it, to paint two horizontal lines over his own eyes, starting in the middle of his forehead and streaked in parallel lines until they reached his cheekbones.

Something about this had scared Lemmetjie even more than the broken bottle and he'd kicked and screamed, pissing himself.

Simon grins as he speeds along Kommetjie Road, the blood striping his face drying against his skin.

Oh, Lemmetjie had spoken and had had much to say, giving Simon some truly tasty leads but first… but first… He frowns, overcome by the memories that push to the forefront of his consciousness.

_Doggie-dog grins his manic grin. The blade severs Simon's vocal chords. He falls and the faces swim before him, Ashleigh's eyes turned milky, her head rolling to one side when Paulo's boot makes contact with chalk-white skin. Doggie-dog, Malles, Paulo, Niemand and Willem laugh. _

They will taste and know fear before Simon extinguishes their filthy souls.

He'd let Lemmetjie go, of course. The crew no longer stayed out in Ocean View. There's a house in Muizenberg, in the village, among all the old Victorian-era cottages. Thirty-four Palmer Road, to be exact. He knows the road, knows the house.

He remembers the house all too well. He had to fetch Brendan there a few times more than he cares to recall. He had settled Brendan's debt on more than one occasion when his brother had inhaled too many grams of coke, had smoked too many hits of crack and had all but mortgaged his soul to run after the powdery demon with its sly whispers and insidious fingers.

The bird croaks in agreement when Simon parks the bike. He fingers the flick-knife Lemmetjie discarded. This will do. He grins, crusted blood cracking on his face. This will do nicely.

The street is quiet but for the trio of boys fooling around on their skateboards. They see Simon and scarper, crying out shrilly, like little birds.

The crow lands on the front gate, a glint in its eye. Simon casts a glance up and down the deserted street where warm yellow light falls in pools onto the tarmac. The interior of this house is dim but someone is home, for he can hear voices muttering, muffled, within.

Simon stands for a moment on the porch, beneath the sloping tin roof. Then, he smiles, gathers his strength and rushes the door. The wood is old and splinters, the glass pane at the top section falling away with the impact.

"Honey! I'm home!" he yells, his voice echoing. He wrinkles his nose at the stench of the place, of sour sweat and the ripe putrescence of air filled with stale marijuana smoke.

Voices sound out in alarm and Simon thumbs the blade, uncaring that he slices into his own skin.

Two men thunder down the passageway, silhouetted in the glow from the kitchen. A woman screams.

"The wolf is at your door. Actually, no, I've blown your door down. What are the little piggies going to do now?" Simon leers.

He knows this pair. Memory flashes back to _that_ night, where they watched, not intervening, laughing, while Doggie-dog did his worst.

The brothers stop dead in their tracks, their eyes bulging as they realise exactly _who_ stands before them.

As one, they spin about, making to run up the passage, but Simon moves much faster than they can. He fells Willem when he kicks his foot out from beneath him. Niemand, the taller of the pair, makes it as far as the kitchen door before Simon slams him into the frame, breaking his nose and knocking him out cold.

Willem tries to crawl back towards the front door but he can't get up. He twisted his ankle as he fell.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Simon whispers into the man's ear and he cries out in fright.

"Don't hurt me!"

The cold blade kisses the soft flesh of Willem's neck.

"Why shouldn't I?" Simon hisses between clenched teeth. "You didn't stop smirking when Doggie-dog tried to slice my head off my neck. Why should I spare you?"

"But I didn't do anything!"

"Precisely!" Simon crows, ripping across Willem's throat with a savage gesture. Willem drops like so much meat to the oaken floors, the blood seeps between the cracks with the last pushes of the heart while air whistles through an opened larynx.

Niemand moans, dazed – trying to get up. The women who were in the kitchen have fled out of the open back door, their screams piercing in the night. Simon crouches next to the prone man, wrinkling his nose with distaste at the man's sour smell.

"Oh, Niemand, or should I call you 'nobody'? I've come to collect those taxes of the bones of your sins, but first you're going to sing me a little aria. I trust you know what that is? It's what those fat ladies do at the opera house.

"Where do I find Doggie-dog, Malles and that Portuguese – Paulo? Lemmetjie was so kind as to elucidate that you and your brother currently reside in this dungpile and may be able to assist me in my inquiries."

Niemand groans, attempting to raise himself to his elbow. Simon pushes Niemand's broken face down, so that his features are ground into the floorboards. Niemand squeals.

"Oi! Douchebag! You're going to sing? Or, should I remind you how sharp the knife that I used to I slit your brother's throat is?"

"Why would I tell you anything?" Niemand whines. "You gonna kill me anyway?"

"Ah, but Niemand, you still get to choose. Do I let you die quickly or do I let you hurt a helluva lot _before_ I allow you to die?"

Niemand emits a strangled cry and wriggles from Simon's grasp, pulling his body halfway across the kitchen floor.

"Wrong answer!" Simon calls out, placing a boot over the back of Niemand's neck.

Niemand turns suddenly, grabbing Simon's ankle to send him sprawling across the kitchen, where he drags bottles off a counter in his path, crashing on the ground in splinters of glass.

Niemand doesn't stay to find out more about what Simon promised him. He jumps to his feet and bolts out of the door, only to have the black bird flying at his face in an explosion of feathers, claws and a sharp beak.

He cries out, his voice as harsh as the crow's, lifting hands in a futile gesture to protect his eyes when the bird slashes at soft tissue – one eyeball punctures with a wet plop when the cruel point gains entry.

Niemand falls back into Simon's embrace.

"Don't try to fight that which is already dead, Nobody."

Niemand squirms in Simon's grip and is cradled in the man's arms – a grim parody of the Madonna and Child. Niemand whimpers, brushing at bits of broken glass clinging to Simon's clothing that bite into his skin.

"Hush, Nobody. Shhhhhh. I'm going to ask you one more time. Where do I find Doggie-dog, Malles and Paulo?"

"They're helping out your brother ­– running errands and stuff. I swear I don't know where they're _dossing_. Woodstock, I think, but since… since…"

"Since I bailed Brendan out here one too many times…" Simon finishes for the man, staring up at the stars.

For a moment it seems as if Niemand has something more to say but Simon grips the hapless young man's forehead, pulls his head back and slashes him an extra red smile just below his chin. Before too much blood stains Simon's hands, he throws the body that kicks and twitches out its life away from him and strides off into the night, the black bird spreading its wings and gliding after him.


	11. Gnawing at the Bones

Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenager years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

**Warning: UK English and some profanities.**

XXX

Daphne had little recollection of how she managed to get herself home. Her hands shook so much she could hardly unlock the front door. When the couple across the way waved and smiled at her from their garden, all she could manage to do was half raise her hand before retreating into the relative safety of her cottage.

She wished that she had whisky or wine to calm her nerves. All she had was instant coffee that was more chicory than coffee. She set the kettle to boil, trying not to think about her discovery.

All this time, she'd been fooling herself, thinking that somehow there had been a mistake, that Simon had not been killed in the attack, that there had been some sort of conspiracy. But, now, she had _seen_ and her mind struggled to compute the evidence.

_He doesn't bleed much. Do you remember stabbing him?_

Outside, children's piercing screams punctured the late evening. Everyone else was living some sort of normal life while she had plunged headlong into something that had, at first, seemed a mystery and had now turned into a full-scale horror story, complete with its own set of supernatural elements.

_Damn you for being so curious, girlfriend._

The doorbell rang and Daphne thought her heart would explode with the suddenness of the sound. Who could it be? Determined to put on a brave face, she strode forward purposefully, so that she imagined that her footsteps clunking on the floorboards gave the impression of confidence.

She pressed her eye against the peephole, seeing the distorted face of Detective Botha through the aperture.

"Detective!" She exclaimed, opening the door as quickly as possible.

The man jumped back, seemed surprised. "May I come in?"

"Of course!"

He looked about before he stepped over the threshold and waited for her to lock the door again. He smelt of Old Spice aftershave that could not mask the stench of stale tobacco that clung to him.

He paced ahead of her to the kitchen, casting about for a place to sit; then opting to lean against the kitchen counter. "Your place is looking much tidier but why no furniture?"

"I've not got the bucks to spend, Detective, and with the current economic climate being what it is…" she shrugged. "To what do I owe this surprise visit?"

He shifted about, unable to meet her eye as he paced around the room. "I don't quite know how to say this, um, I mean…"

He stopped, making eye contact, licking his lips.

"What do you want to say?" she asked.

He shook his head, clearly struggling with whatever concept flitted at the tip of his tongue. "Miss Cloete… I have seen the coroner's report. I have seen the death certificate. Simon de Villiers died three years ago. Why would these fingerprints be an exact match? Why would your description fit his, perfectly?"

He ran his fingers through his short red hair. His eyes darted about. Daphne new with a chill feeling that she'd have to tell him about the grave.

She drew a deep breath and reached out a hand to steady him. The muscles of his forearm were taut beneath her fingers. "I went to the cemetery today. I found his grave. It's empty."

His skin turned white and the man sagged against the kitchen counter. "My god," he gasped. "I would not have believed you if you'd told me that before I compared the prints but there's just… I really don't know what to say."

They stared at each other for a silent eternity. Eventually, Daphne broke the silence. "What now?"

"I honestly don't know. In all my years I've seen some very strange things – some which cannot be explained by logic or science. I don't think that I can file a report on this." His laughter was a harsh bark.

"I'll see if I can get him to talk to me _if_ I ever see him again, maybe tell us what it's like on the other side," but Daphne's attempt at humour fell flat. Her own laugh sounded forced. "Aw, fuck."

Detective Botha reached into his back pocket for a crumpled back of Chesterfields. His eyes hardly focused on his actions while he popped a cigarette into his mouth, offering Daphne one. She shook her head. She didn't have the heart to tell him that she didn't smoke and under normal circumstances would not allow people to smoke in her house. These weren't ordinary circumstances, were they? She shivered.

"Will you be careful?" he asked. "There are, or rather have been, some unsavoury characters mixed up in this."

"I'm a big girl," Daphne replied, not quite sure of herself. It would be better to bullshit herself into believing that she had a handle on the situation.

"Uh-huh," he replied, exhaling a plume of smoke, eyeing her speculatively.

"I'll be careful, I promise. I'll call the minute anything untoward happens but please, please, please, do let me know if you uncover anything from your side. Fair is fair." Daphne couldn't help but feel like a little girl saying that and wanted to kick herself.

"There's nothing fair or neat in this story, girl. Just be happy that you're still breathing and that you have prospects."

His phone rang, a tinny electronic rendition of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. He jumped to answer it, turning away from Daphne and striding down the passage, so that he could have some privacy while he spoke.

He was not busy for long before he closed the phone, shoving it into his pocket. "I must go. Something is up."

"Does it have anything…"

His look of annoyance silenced her. "There's more to this city than Simon's little drama. Murder removes people from this city every day. Good evening. Life goes on. We'll stay in touch."

The dismissal in his tone was obvious. He wrenched the front door open and stepped out into the darkened street where moths battered themselves senseless against the illumination of the streetlights.

She stood in her doorway and watched as the detective climbed into his car, returning his gesture when he lifted his hand to bid her farewell.

Her blood turned to ice when she heard the bird caw. A large black raven watched her from its perch on the fence across the road.

Daphne shut her door quickly, pulling the latch down and turning the key.

"Tell me about my brother," a man said.

She gasped, spun around and found herself facing Simon. He leant against the kitchen counter, arms stretched behind him so that she could count his ribs, the leather of his jacket creaking. Rusty brown streaks ran parallel down his eyes, flaking off in parts, contrasting with the unnatural pallor of his skin.

"What are you?" she quavered, her knees buckling.

He strode over, his boots thumping on the floorboards. "I am the black dog that comes to gnaw at the bones of those who have sinned."

"Your witticisms don't work for me," she retorted. "What are you, crow man? I didn't want to believe but all the evidence so far indicates that you are dead, yet here you are, walking." She tried hard to hide her shaking.

He stood so close to her that she could smell him, a mixture of something old and dusty and the iron tang of old blood. "The bird tells me to come here. You know something that you need to tell me."

_Oh, fuck. He knows._

What should she say? She shook her head to dispel the confusion, raising a trembling hand to her forehead. "I… Don't…"

"Tell me!" he growled, his hand snaking out to grip hers, his skin dry and cold against her own.

"I can't!" she wailed, crumpling to the floor, her fear blooming in her blood, sending icy tendrils slicing through her veins.

He fell to his knees before her, grabbing her by her hair and pressing his forehead against hers.

Daphne gave a strangled cry, closing her eyes, unable to bear him being this close to her. His fingers snarled painfully in strands of her hair. Suppressed rage quivered in his muscles. He was taut, like a wound spring and she was about to feel the full measure of his wrath.


	12. Revelations

zen

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

As much as Simon wishes that he could have lashed out or have choked the fear out of Daphne – he can't. Instead, he flees into the night after she spills the words that damn him. He rides down the darkened streets not sure if it is _him_ or the bike's engine that does the howling.

Brendan. How _could_ he? And, Ashleigh. How _dare_ she? But, it all starts to make sense, those afternoons when he'd go out to photograph scenery, or meet with gallery owners. Brendan would be languishing after one of his infamous binges.

What did Ashleigh see in his younger brother, whom he did not even consider as some sort of threat to their relationship? His slightly overweight, whiney little brother… who'd hung out with the wrong crowd, who was the despairs of the De Villiers clan?

It comes as no surprise that Brendan would stand to profit, build some sort of career from the ashes of Simon's life. This thought is bitter. Why should his little brother, who'd showed no aptitude for art now seek a career in _his_ industry?

Daphne, although frightened out of her wits, has been most helpful, furnishing Simon with far more information than he wanted to hear. He curses himself for a fool for not having seen the obvious.

_Yes, boy, there is much pain and betrayal here,_ says the bird.

For all he knows, he'd left the bird behind him but here it sits now, in Castle Street, where Simon is idling the chopper.

The bird is a patch of inky blackness perched on a dustbin ahead of him. Its eyes pick up flashes of lights from the streetlamps.

"You," he sneers with disgust.

The crow caws, spreading its wings in a fashion that he may have once found menacing – when he had been alive.

Simon kills the chopper's engine, then rests for a moment, leaning with his palms down on the fuel tank. He'd like nothing more than to stride up the street, to take a sharp left and enter the brightly lit gallery but something holds him back, perhaps a ghost of his past.

_Another fashionable exhibition launch; Ashleigh is radiant in a maroon velveteen gown that leaves most of her back exposed. She is the darling tonight, the centre of the attention, while Simon lurks in the corner, nursing yet another glass of red wine, some expensive vintage, no doubt. It all tastes the same, really._

_As much as he knows how important these events are for the continued success of his art, he abhors the empty-headed chatter, the know-it-all bigwigs who discuss how many doors they have on their new SUVs, the blonde soccer mommies who feign an interest in art – in his art._

_An artist needs to eat, to fill his glass with wine and buy canvases and paints. If need be, an artist can put up with all the airs and graces of those fools whose credit cards end up paying for the roof over his head._

Simon's sneer out there on the street is an echo, a reflection of the one that he wore during many nights such as the one presently playing itself out inside the light-filled exhibition space.

"Fancy that, brother dearest, that you would take such a keen interest in art after I'm gone. Fancy that," Simon whispers beneath his breath, his lips hardly moving.

The bird grows impatient, hopping onto the pavement and bouncing up the way with the stiff-legged gait so typical of corvids. Its raspy crow impinges itself on Simon's hearing where he is paused, undecided.

"Yes, you stupid bird. I hear you. Can a dead man not have some moments of clarity before he goes on to cause some more mayhem?"

He glances again at the brightly lit interior. Music – something baroque and fluffy – spills out of the open door. Guests talk and laugh too loudly while wandering between misshapen modern sculptures. Mouths open and shut, teeth white against florid skin.

"Right. Let's go," Simon grunts, swinging his leg over the bike. The soles of his boots grind on the cement surface of the pavement. A pair of dark-suited men smoking cigarettes melt out of his way as he reaches the entrance, shock showing on their features when they lay eyes on him.

_Fools._

A few strangled gasps are uttered as he steps inside the gallery, blinking at the brightness of the white walls. All eyes are riveted on his ebon-clad figure as he strides across the room towards the drinks table, plucking a flute of sparkling wine from the nerveless fingers of one of the serving staff.

"What are you looking at?" he snaps at the pasty-faced boy.

"N-n-nothing, sir," he stammers, looking away quickly.

A leggy blonde dressed in a tight, pin-striped suit strides over, her heels clicking on the glossy white floortiles.

"Excuse me, sir, but…" her eyes widen as the blood drains from her face. She recognises him. She _knows_.

He grins wolfishly at her. She takes a step back; then another, before she turns on her heel to run up the stairs after emitting a strangled squeak.

"Well, what are the rest of you looking at?" he asks gruffly, taking a long sip of the sparkling wine. It tastes tart and musty. He spits it back into the glass, which he drops on the floor in a tinkle of glass fragments.

The fat lady in the corner whimpers, clutching at her partner. Simon glares at the preening fools in the room around him.

"You bore me," he mutters, making for the stairs.

The bird, which has been conspicuous in its absence during this interchange, flaps in noisily by the door, eliciting fresh screams from the guests, some of whom are already exercising the prudence of putting on their jackets to leave.

Simon's attention has already shifted to his potential meeting with his brother. He makes it halfway up the stairs when he stops, face-to-face with a portly man who is both familiar and yet alien to him.

Brendan's initial look of concern is replaced with a look of unutterable horror as realisation sinks in. Simon follows his gaze to the big oil painting hanging above the stairs.

Simon knows every brushstroke, is familiar with the very pigments selected with such care to evoke the glowing colours. Ashleigh's painted eyes seem to follow his movements, accusing. He is filled with an overwhelming urge to rip this painting from the wall and to tear the canvas until the fragments are no bigger than postage stamps. His fists clench and unclench.

Instead, he looks upon his brother, a chill smile crawling across his lips. "Miss me, Brendan?"

Brendan's mouth opens and shuts as if he wants to say something but no sound comes out. The crow flaps up onto the railing, splitting the silences between the words with its loud cawing. It scrapes its beak against the worn wood.

Brendan trips back up the stairs, half sliding down onto his back. His need to escape is so great that he daren't break eye contact, as if he is facing a venomous serpent rather than a long-dead brother.

"This isn't happening!" Brendan whimpers.

"What makes you say that?" Simon replies, leaning over his sibling's prone form. He brings his face close to Brendan's, so that he can see every pore; every glistening bead of sweat.

There are shrieks and muttered oaths as more of the guests upstairs begin to jump to their own conclusions as to Simon's identity. A loud report causes even more consternation and Simon grunts with sudden pain, slumping against the banister.

He turns to glare up at the man armed with a 9mm pistol. "That… Was… Unwise," he hisses from between clenched teeth.

Brendan's henchman doesn't see how the flesh in the shoulder wound is already knitting together. Brendan takes the momentary pause of his brother as his cue to turn his back on Simon and dash up the last of the stairs.

"That was also unwise," Simon growls, bunching his muscles to leap up the intervening space.

He rugby-tackles his brother low, with enough force for the two men to slide across the slick floor for several metres. Brendan squeals and scrabbles furiously at the tiles.

Another loud explosion from the gun leaves Simon's ears ringing. The pain that blossoms in the small of his back has him grunting with surprise.

"Your friend is beginning to annoy me," he whispers into his brother's ear. "Kindly ask him to put his toy away."

Brendan gives a strangled cry, flipping onto his side in a bid to remove Simon from his back. Inadvertently he shields Simon with his body and the goon in the black suit lowers the gun, frowning.

Simon struggles to his feet, pressing fingers to the place where the bullet has ripped through. He looks at the little blood, puzzled, before launching himself at the gunman.

The man is able to squeeze off another round but the shot goes wild, chipping a spray of plaster off the ceiling instead of biting into flesh. They tussle, the weapon clatters to the ground and the guests, shocked out of their momentary daze, begin their exit amid panicky screams while making a dash down the stairwell.

Simon lands a solid punch that sends his assailant's head snapping back. The man, out cold, falls to the floor in a meaty heap.

Simon grins when he realises that his kid brother has the barrel of the fallen pistol pressed against the back of his skull.

"Go ahead, squirt, pull the trigger. It doesn't matter, I'm already dead."

The metal quivers against his skin. The hand that holds the weapon is shaking. Hard. Simon smiles, then whirls around, lightning quick, to grip the gun from Brendan's now limp grasp.

"Bad idea, brother," Simon drawls, rolling the "R" while he pushes his sibling back against the wall. "We need to have some words. Quite a few, in fact."

"B-b-b-b-but you're…"

"Dead? And, yes, I happen to be walking _and_ talking."

He shoves his brother hard so that the back of his head cracks against the wall. Brendan closes his eyes and gulps.

"Good. You're nervous. I should kill you, you know, but you're my brother, so I'm only going to hurt you a little bit."


	13. Too late, she cried

Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

Daphne broke down and cried, whether it was fear, or relief that Simon had left after forcing her to reveal the grisly epilogue to his tale – that the murdered foetus had not even been _his_; she could only cry.

_Phone his brother, you dumb git,_ her inner voice warned. _You know exactly where he's going now and you know that he's not going to show any kindness._

Her fingers shook as she depressed her cellphone's rubbery buttons. She cursed. Voicemail.

She left her message, wondering if he'd pick it up in time. "Hi Brendan, Daphne here. You… you said I must call, should… _he_ pitch up. So… I'm just letting you know…"

Her voice trailed off. She wanted to say more but didn't dare. Why did she feel like such a traitor? She killed the phone, setting it down on the kitchen counter. The cottage was too quiet. The usual rumble of street noise was also muted. She stared at the stained, peeling walls for a while, unsure of what to do, how to act. She doubted she would sleep, yet her body screamed at her of its exhaustion, of the tension that her wound up so tight she could almost not draw breath.

No. It was better that she tried to get some rest. It had been a long, event-filled day and she'd done and seen much.

_I'm overwrought,_ she thought. She took care to lock the front door, checking outside briefly, but not a soul stirred. _I could be murdered in my sleep and no one would care._

The following day was almost a let-down. She was not sure what to do with herself and spent most of her day fiddling about the cottage, washing walls and weeding the back garden. She tried not to think of Simon. She kept feeling the press of his fingers on her flesh, his manic eyes, his face pressed against her own.

By noon, she could not handle her isolation any longer. She grabbed her handbag and walked out into the street. The sun beat down, without mercy, and she quickly sought shade, heading down Lower Main Road and the relative coolness offered by Ava's Coffee Bar.

She lost herself, watching patrons coming and going and sipping at the same beer for more than an hour. She grabbed the early edition of _The Cape Argus_, skimming through the pages until she encountered the story she did not want to know about, on page three.

It had been relegated to the lower half of the page. It wasn't terribly long but it confirmed her fears.

_Look-alike of murdered artist assaults brother_

She felt suddenly dizzy, reading over the story three times, then eventually tearing it out carefully and tucking it into her purse. The essential facts spoke of a crazy person who bore more than an outward appearance of Simon who assaulted Brendan during a launch held at his gallery. Should she feel relief that he'd only beaten up on the man a bit, that he'd not been killed? Should she call him?

What if he thought that she'd somehow put Simon up to this? Half-fledged fears fluttered through her head. Why could she not see a way through this?

The beer tasted bitter on the back of her throat. She should eat something, go somewhere, _do_ something. There was no one that she could visit. She'd lost touch with her old friends and the few that she still kept contact with were all up in Jo'burg or the UK.

_This is no use. I may as well carry on with the weeding. I'm trying to avoid the inevitable… another night… waiting._

The shadows already grew long when she returned to the cottage. Sprinklers hissed in the small gardens that she passed and the smell of wet, sun-warmed tar transported her to her past, to a time of skinned knees, mixed orange juice-flavoured cool drinks and cut grass.

There was an unfamiliar car – a battered Toyota – parked in their road. There was no sign of the occupants but it was parked where her neighbours usually did, which was why she noticed it now. It made her uneasy. Should she phone Detective Botha? Surely he already had been notified about the previous night's drama.

A lot made her uneasy, she had to admit that as well, but just today, she found herself double-checking everything, _really_ looking at things, memorising faces, noting even what people wore.

The car was out of place. Daphne frowned, checked up and down the street, but saw only a brown mutt crossing over to the other side.

She made sure to lock the door tightly, putting on the latch, breathing a sigh of relief for some undefined reason. Should she call Brendan? Even if she got hold of him, what good would this phonecall do but draw suspicion to her? Instead, she continued with her weeding until all the light had bled out of the sky and the mosquitoes began to bug her too much.

Much later, when she washed the dishes, she did not hear the knocking at her door until whomever it was started pulling at the door handle.

The mug she was scrubbing out slipped from her nerveless fingers. Simon had an uncanny ability to either just appear or barge right on in. She didn't expect Detective Botha to be showing up so late without calling first and her neighbours pretty much kept to themselves… This was not good.

She paused, hoping that whomever it was would give up and go away, but the person clearly wasn't taking "no" for an answer. This time, the door all but sprang from its frame with the amount of determination the visitor showed.

She had her doubts that it was the kind of visitor she'd want in her home.

Daphne grasped the kitchen knife from the drying rack, hefting it. "Go away!" she called out. "I'll phone the police if you don't leave. I'm calling them now, in fact!"

Another push. She did not have a chance to react as the two men crashed through the front door.

_I just had that repaired,_ a petulant voice in her head complained.

Surprise was the best tactic but they moved too fast. Granted, she'd surprised them by being ready for them and not behaving like a frightened female, but they overpowered her quickly in a fumble of hands.

She screamed at the pair but she was no match for these much-scarred men, who laughed while they pinned her arms behind her back.

"Who are you? Why?"

"If we tell you, we'll have to kill you," the short one laughed, leering at her, his hand straying to her breast.

"Bossman said we just gotta keep an eye on her, said nothing about not having a little fun while we at it," the taller of the pair pointed out.

A very real fear coursed through Daphne. "Don't you dare!" she spat.

"Dare what? No one's going to hear you scream if we stuff some old socks in your mouth."

"Help! Fire!" Daphne yelled. She saw stars explode in her vision when a fist connected hard with the side of her head. Then the pain blossomed.

"Shut up, bitch."

Dazed, she hung her head, allowing them to drag her towards the bathroom. She tried to break free when they reached the kitchen, managing to hook her ankle against the lintel of the door. She was rewarded with another blow that had her ears ringing. Daphne tasted copper and something tickled the side of her face.

_I'm bleeding._

Dimly, she heard their voices.

"What's that?"

"Dunno, you go look."

She used the disturbance to wriggle but had herself slammed painfully into the wall, hitting her forehead so that she slumped onto her knees.

Footsteps receded up the passageway. "It's a fucking crow," the man said. "It's sitting out front on the gate."

"Didn't…" her captor started, only to be cut short by a sudden crash of broken glass.

_The side doors…_ Daphne thought, counting up the damage to lock and glass in spite of the more immediate threat to her physical well-being.

"What the fu…" the man from the passage was cut short and his voice died away in a wet gargle.

Daphne shook her head, trying to get her eyes to focus. The man that held her dropped her.

"Malles?"

A new voice impinged itself on her hearing. "Malles is suffering a serious problem dealing with the new orifice that I have gifted him. Paulo, I presume?"

_Simon!_

Paulo made a choking sound. As Daphne's vision cleared, she looked up just as a stumbling figure backed into her, knocking her over where she leant against the wall.

A wordless scream erupted from her throat as she pushed at the man, who tumbled onto her, an anger boiling out from her that she had no known that she previously possessed.

"Bastard!" she screamed, stumbling to her feet as the man fell forward and to one side…

Into the arms of Simon, who held a bloodied blade in his right hand while he welcomed Paulo into his deadly embrace.

"How I've missed you, my dear sweet little Portuguese friend. Let me count the ways…"

Daphne stifled a shriek as Simon's hand danced three times, plunging the blade into various soft parts of Paulo's flesh.

"Now, perhaps you can tell me, before I allow you to shuffle off this mortal coil. Where is Doggie-dog?"

The man screamed, tried to push away, but Simon was quicker, pushing the swaying man against the kitchen counter.

"I have waited a long time for this, meat bag," he grinned. "Now, where do I find Doggie-dog, or must I open your ears for you before I let you sleep?"

"D-d-d-d-dollies' Parlour, Wynberg," Paulo managed, before Simon gutted him, spilling loops of entrails on the floor before the body followed.

Paulo's breath rattled in his throat as he clutched at the ground, his hands clawing and smearing blood, and worse, while his last movements jerked to a stop.

Simon examined the blood on his hands, a smile playing across his features. It was as if Daphne wasn't even in the room. He daubed the red liquid on his face, refreshing the marks that had already mostly flaked off.

"Why? How?" Daphne breathed.

He turned to look at her. Icy blue eyes made contact with her own and he regarded her from beneath a fall of white-blond hair.

"A little bird whispered in my ear," Simon said in a quiet voice.

"And I'm just bait for your hook," Daphne retorted.

Simon shrugged, stretching with a creak of leather. "Something like that. But you are no longer really an innocent bystander, are you, Daphne?" He sounded almost wistful.

She nodded, crinkling her nose at the red stench of death. She had no idea what she was going to do about the bodies. Here she stood in her kitchen, talking with a dead man, and she had no clue how she was going to deal with the mess.

Hysterical laughter erupted from her lips.


	14. Every Dog has its Day

Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

Simon stares at the woman who has so conveniently created a catalyst for his intentions. She breathes heavily, crouching by the kitchen counter, her hair a mess, sticking up in wild tufts and her eyes are rimmed with white.

_Thank goodness she's stopped with the hysterical laughter. _I'm_ the one who's supposed to be barking mad._

The crow perches on Paulo's face, digging into the now empty eye sockets with its dagger-like beak.

"So, you're just going to leave me with this mess," the woman, Daphne, accuses him.

He glances down at the corpses, then back at her. "I guess. What am I supposed to do about them? Why don't you call the cops? They're more equipped to deal with this kind of situation."

"Right on," she whispers. "And, when they lock me up?"

He shrugs, steps over Paulo's prone form, and walks towards the front door that hangs drunkenly on its hinges.

"You're just lucky the bird warned me," he states. "Go on. Live your life. You won't be locked up for this." He presses a bloody hand against the lintel of the front door. "See, I think it's quite obvious that you _do not_ have blood on your hands. Tell them anything you want, it doesn't matter."

She rushes forward but stops when he turns to face her.

"Where are you going now?"

"To wreak vengeance. There is one last death before I find some form of rest."

"Has it occurred to you that it's a little strange that there's someone who wants _me_ out of the picture?"

"You're in over your head, girl. You shouldn't have gotten involved in the first place."

"And now you're just going to wash your hands of me?" she cried angrily, gesturing at the bodies.

"This is none of my concern, now that they've stopped breathing. The bird told me to come here, must have been privy to some sort of information."

"Where _were_ you before here?"

"I had to pay my respects to someone dear to me," Simon replies, recalling the sound of the wind moaning through the pine trees in Plumstead cemetery.

"You beat up on your brother," Daphne points out.

"Allow me some satisfaction. He deceived me when I thought I was to be a father."

"They both deceived you, Simon. An equal share of the blame falls at Ashleigh's feet."

A surge of anger burns through Simon. "You leave Ashleigh out of this! She has suffered enough!"

"She was no angel to be screwing your brother behind your back!"

For an instant he tenses, his first reaction to fly at the woman before him, to strike at her. She's not oblivious to his intention, either, and her eyes narrow, her posture shifts, but she stands her ground.

"What are you going to do, Simon, beat me for telling the truth?"

"Allow me my satisfaction!" he roars.

"Whom are you doing this for? All this killing?"

"These men were _there_. They had a hand in Ashleigh's and my deaths. There is one more, then I rest and this world is finally rid of me."

The look she gives him is one of pity and he cannot stand to see this. "Go then," she breathes, sagging in on herself.

The bird's caw is harsh when it flaps to Simon's shoulder, its beak dull with blood. Daphne ducks when the wings brush past her face.

Uncertainty gnaws at him, perhaps for the first time since his resurrection. He felt a fire that night, born out of rain and lightning. Now, the dissipation clouds his feelings. Yes, he must continue. Doggie-dog must pay, but something else bothers him. There is some thread left undone.

_Fool boy. You're missing the obvious, but you'll come 'round,_ says the bird.

Daphne's existence loses importance to him. She is just a face, a convenience that has aided his goals, which he can now discard.

The night embraces him with its torpor. There has been no wind all day and the air is thick, humid. In his mental map of the city, the next destination lights up, a fiery beacon. His fingers curl about the grips of the handlebars and there is something infinitely satisfying about the bass rumble of the engine that roars into life between his thighs.

The black bird hunkers down in the crook of his neck, the feathers tickling his soft skin. The only sign that Simon gives that the sensation bothers him is a slight twitch, before he adjusts his balance and rides off into the quiet city streets.

It may be a week night, but there are signs of life along Main Road Wynberg, where bargain furniture stores, Chinese discount shops and car dealerships stand cheek by jowl with liquor outlets and halaal eateries.

The ladies of the night, dressed in their tardy outfits that leave little to the imagination, pace up and down the pavements, or smoke cigarettes behind cupped hands in knots of twos or threes.

Lazy-eyed pimps sporting their status with plenty of _bling_, lean against walls, checking out the action while acting as nonchalant as only someone convinced of their own coolness can behave. The night is yet young.

The type of folks who cruise slowly past this place, are clearly not shopping for the kind of goods that the government would be taxing.

This is the scene that greets Simon as he thunders down the road, an ugly sneer contorting his features. He harbours little love for this place, with its whores, pimps and dealers. As much as City of Cape Town claims that it is working towards improving this suburb by proclaiming a city improvement district, the officials are unable to root out the worst of the vermin that come crawling out once the sun slips below the horizon.

Dollies is a sliver of a bar, tucked into a building that tries to hint at its art deco past but is disfigured by so much contemporary graffiti, signage and peeling paint that it would be easy to overlook its historical importance.

Loud R&B tunes sway, bump and grind out into the night and the dozens of patrons standing around outside turn to stare when Simon pulls up the bike across the road. A few tough characters adjust their belts and give Simon the eyeball, as if to say: _What are you doing here? You do not belong._

This does not bother Simon in the least. He stares right back at them, calculating, summing up which of tonight's audience may pose some form of threat. The black bird untangles its feet from Simon's hair to caw and flap up to preen from the top of a streetlight.

_This isn't going to be a cakewalk, boy. You had best remember that. Fate saves the best dish for last. After this, there is one more._

"This is the last, by my reckoning, bird. I'm tired of your little riddles," Simon mutters under his breath, without looking up. The fresh blood he painted on before leaving the house, has already cracked and the copper scent fills his nostrils.

A fatigue tugs at his bones. He still sees the pine-dappled sunlight of Plumstead cemetery, the plain rectangular marker with _her_ name engraved.

_Ashleigh, laughing, pulls him down onto her bed of sin, her small hands tugging loose his clothes, travelling to the secret places to set his skin aflame._

"How many times did you fuck him, baby?" Simon murmurs. By all rights, he should feel _something_ but there is no anger anymore, only the sense that he must complete this mission, so that the last puzzle piece falls into place.

_I'm so tired. My bones are filled with sand. I no longer have a taste for this._

Doggie-dog must die, however. He cannot bear that that proud, sneering face can exist after the violation, the way the man laughed, the way he _enjoyed_ hurting Simon. Absently, he reaches to his neck, to feel the pale puckered scar that he brought back from the grave. No. Doggie-dog must know pain. He must taste fear in the last moments before death claims him.

Above, the bird's voice rips through the music, drawing the attention of Simon's impromptu audience.

_It's time, boy,_ the harsh words tumble into his mind. _This night isn't growing any younger._


	15. Call the Cleaning Crew!

Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

Daphne glared after Simon when he slipped out into the night, so much one of the other shadows.

_What did you expect from a ghost, girlfriend?_

Shaking, she leant against the shattered front door. The scenes from this evening replayed endlessly in her head. Yes, she had been washing dishes. Someone had tried to break open the front door.

No! Someone _did_ break open the door, two men – of the lowest scum that she prayed never have to be in such a predicament with. They'd smelt of stale tobacco smoke, of grease, of clothes long unwashed and their hands…

… their hands had been _everywhere_, touching, squeezing and fondling her in a way that had left little to her imagination.

The fact that these two men now lay dead – the one completely eviscerated – in her lounge was not something she found comforting at all, either.

Daphne crouched by the front door. Somewhere in the slaughterhouse behind her, her cellphone rang, that eternal toccata shattering the silence.

As if she was a sleepwalker, her feet leaden, Daphne returned to the kitchen, stepping over a prone form to stare at the cellphone's illuminated screen.

It was Alexander. It would be so easy to answer. Alexander would make all of this go away in an instant. He had connections. Alexander wouldn't want her to live like this…

… but he would take away all her power.

She stood still, breathing shallowly through her mouth so that the reek of blood and faecal matter did not bother as much. Daphne watched the phone scream its electronic song while vibrating and turning on the fake granite counter. There was only the ringing in her ears when it finally stopped.

Perhaps she should just grab her few things and walk out. They would only discover the bodies once they began to stink, which would give Daphne a day or two's head start. To where, though? She could take the N7 highway up the West Coast. She could drive to some place obscure, like Springbok or Nababeep, to live out her time working as a cashier in a corner café or a waitress in a diner, fending off the advances of sweaty truck drivers or miners.

No. That was not what she wanted. Crying wouldn't help her, either. There were two dead bodies messing up the floor of her lounge and kitchen.

Plan B. She _could_ get some builders' plastic, some more cleaning fluid, duct tape and an industrial-sized mop. Gloves would be a good idea, yes.

She'd once found her sister's cat lying dead in the road in front of their house, an explosion of guts spilling in a mess of pink flesh stuck to the tarmac.

Her mother had ordered her to clean this up before her sister returned from ballet classes and Daphne had retched the entire time until she'd learnt to ignore the wet _schlopping_ noises the meat made when handled. It was just so much meat, after all.

She could do this, yes? Daphne spared a glance at the corpses, then looked away, her gorge rising.

_Phone the cops, girlfriend, what are you waiting for? You've got Detective Botha's number._

Could she deal with this right now? It would be chaos and endless questions. They'd most likely lock her up overnight. She'd have to fill out forms, have her fingerprints taken. She'd have to face tired men who'd seen it all and would not want to hear stories of how dead men clawed their way out of their graves to punish wrongdoers who'd murdered them.

Tears of frustration flowed down her cheeks and an iron band constricted her chest. Daphne went as far as calling Detective Botha's name up on the screen of her cellphone but, for some indefinable reason, she could not bring herself to depress the "call" button.

The stench grew unbearable and she grabbed the phone, stepping over a large puddle of fluid to sit outside on the steps leading to her back garden, spending some time removing bits of broken glass ingrained in the soles of her shoes.

It was warm tonight, too warm. By now Simon would be continuing with his gruesome task and she prayed that he would not hurt someone who hadn't had a hand in his murder.

_Since when were you so concerned with wrong and right? You were happy to turn a blind eye at some of Alexander's shadier business dealings. People got hurt then but you were happy to continue living in that big house in Northcliff._

Blood money had kept her, paying for her food, clothes and entertainment. As if on cue, her cellphone started ringing again.

She glanced at the screen, filled with the leaden certainty that Alexander would be trying to get through again during one of his maudlin alcoholic binges.

The screen, however, displayed Brendan's name and number while the tinny rendition of Bach's well-known tune stabbed at the still darkness.

"Brendan! Omigod! Thank goodness!" Daphne answered.

The line clicked dead. Daphne stared at the device, puzzled. Why had he put the phone down? He wasn't exactly the saviour she'd be looking for in this situation but even though she misliked him, he'd be a better option than the cops. It was his house, after all, and _his_ brother.

Then the phone buzzed into life in her hand. She answered.

"Daphne!" Brendan greeted. "You tried to call me the other day." His voice sounded high-pitched, strained.

"Your brother," Daphne stated, flatly.

He did not reply immediately and she heard the sharp, indrawn hiss of breath. "Yes. I know."

"He was here again," Daphne started but then the enormity of her situation crashed down. Tears blinded her. "Brendan, you gotta help me… I… I don't know what to do."

"What happened?" His voice sounded hollow. There was a nasty echo on their connection.

"Two men… They came here… Tried to kill… Then Simon got them… I don't know what to do. Should I call the police?"

"_Don't!_ No, Daphne. Don't call the police. I'll be there soon. Just stay put. I'll help. He _is_ my older brother, after all. Just wait for me. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."


	16. Sleeping Dogs Die

Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

The late-night revellers step back, nervous, when Simon crosses the road. No doubt, they'd been banking on sheer numbers to keep the weirdo from approaching.

Simon feels the laughter welling up inside him. He stops before the motley crowd, arms akimbo, and takes a good look at his audience.

The laughter ripples through his gut, climbing up through his vocal chords so that he has to tip his head back to set it free.

"Look at you!" he spits. "You're afraid of me, aren't you? It's not just the way I'm dressed, is it? It's the fact that _I'm_ not behaving in the right way. I'm not moving on. I'm standing here before you, rubbing your failure to ignore the odd one out in your faces."

Some of the ladies pale, stepping behind their men, or pulling together in protective groups.

_I'm like a leopard,_ Simon thinks. _I've brought a troop of baboons to bay. They'll break and run, or one of the males will bare his fangs._

The crow screams a harsh _quork_ from above, to glide down to Simon's shoulder, causing the people before him to mutter and step back. A few less hardy souls let out frightened squeaks. The bird grumbles in its throat.

"You will let me pass," Simon states in a quiet voice. "I don't have any issues with you."

"Weirdo," some guy mutters but no one is in a hurry to make the first move.

Simon fingers the long blade he has tucked away in his sleeve, ready. Their eyes follow him, glittering with fear and hatred. Glossy lips the colour of metallic plum are slightly parted. Hard faces bearing scars are set in lines of disapproval. Their brand-and-coke smells chemical. He catches a whiff of the medicinal smell of cocaine.

_Jesus, how can they put that rubbish in their bodies?_

When someone does make a move, it's not the guy Simon is expecting. It's the young, dark-skinned teen with the poor excuse for a moustache, taking advantage of Simon's blind spot.

The crow lifts in a slap of black feathers cutting through the air. Simon spins to block the youngster, who wields a knife the way he's seen in a thousand B-grade action films.

The boy overreaches and Simon pushes his hand out of the way, delivery a sharp kick to the lad's kneecap. A satisfying crunch betrays damaged cartilage and the boy cries out before crumpling to the ground, swearing loudly.

This prompts three of the men to step in simultaneously, one with a pistol, two armed with flick-knives. The women shriek, falling back, a few disappearing inside the club, perhaps to fetch help.

_This situation is spiralling out of control,_ the bird comments from its perch on the neon sign above the door.

"Go to hell!" Simon cries out, the old anger welling up in his chest. "You can all go to hell!"

He is not intent on killing but these men stand in his way. Lightning quick, he rushes the gunman, whose shot cracks out to send a bullet wide, zinging off the ground, clipping the tarmac half a metre form Simon's boots.

It's the only shot he fires this night. Simon's fist smashes the man's nose and he staggers back to dent the bonnet of the metallic grey Golf GTI parked to the left of the entrance.

Simon whirls about, in time to receive a fiery slash across his knuckles while he blocks the first knifeman's lunge. The second catches him in his midriff, twisting his dirty blade deep into the flesh above Simon's kidneys. Slashing back with his knife, he catches the second assailant in the gut with his blade, but the first knifeman lands a punch that sends the lighter-built Simon staggering a few paces into a gaggle of women.

They scream, kicking at him so that he loses his balance even further, crouching while their blows rain down on him.

He gathers his energy, pushing away from the females to block the remaining knifeman's last attack. Simon uses the man's rush to send him crashing into the rear of the luckless Golf, where he sighs to the ground and doesn't move.

A wary truce descends, with only the thump of the music decompressing from within the depths of the club.

_So much for the unobtrusive entrance, boy,_ grates the bird. _It would be a miracle if the cops don't come soon._

"Shut up!" Simon groans, staring at the people who shift and mutter.

They step back when he resumes his intent to enter Dollies. This time, nobody bars his way and he enters the smoke-filled premises.

Dolly, the owner, is nowhere to be seen. Simon recalls having been here before… before. Well, before _that_. Two tired-looking ladies lean across the bar, ostensibly to serve the clientele drinks but it looks as if they've rather been helping themselves. A scarred pool table crouches off to the far corner, the dark faces surrounding the green felt surface not bothering to turn in Simon's direction.

He doesn't recognise the music. To Simon, it all sounds the same unless it's Andrew Eldritch moaning about his temple of love or Siouxie and the Banshees going on about burning wheels.

The strobe light over the dance floor flashes, revealing contorted bodies twisting in a sad semblance of seduction. The light picks up the glitter, the missing sequins and the bloated flesh forced into too-tight jeans.

His quarry waits upstairs, the last man. A slow chilling smile crawls across Simon's features when he catches sight of himself in the mirror on the landing. He gains a perverse kind of pleasure at seeing how his hair has matted, caked with blood and the two diagonal bloodstreaks breaking the pale monotony of the skin on his face. Savage.

_Beware, I am the new primitive, the demon that lurks just beneath the skin, the humming wire, the blade in the night, the…_

BANG!

Simon's world explodes in a muzzle flash of bright light and he is thrown back, to sprawl down the stairs.

_You didn't see that one coming, boy?_ The crow's voice rasps.

In the distance, the music recedes. He has a faint awareness that someone stands above him at the head of the stairs but he cannot see, cannot move. His body has seized up.

_What the f-_

_You've just taken a bullet to your brain, boy._

_There's no pain._

_Bang! You're dead, remember? Dead people don't feel pain._

_Yes they do, you dumb bird. What do you know of pain?_

_Tsk. You're all emotional. Give it up. Listen._

Simon quits his argument, awash in numbness. Far away, a voice – a chillingly familiar voice – speaks. It's a one-sided conversation.

_He's talking to someone on the phone. Shhh. It's important that you listen._ There is a beating of wings, a shuffle of feathers.

"Hey, bossman. Yeah, it's me, Dog. Sure, sure. No. I'm fine.

"Yeah, well, I got him. He came here looking like something out of Halloween, some twisted _kak_, I tell you, painting his face with blood, the sick _moffie_."

Floorboards squeak. Hot breath on Simon's face as strong hands grasp his leather jacket and drag him up the stairs.

"Wha'dya want me to do? Sure. Yeah'll come over to take care of the bitch. What? You bro's place? Sure. What do you want me to do with the body?"

He kicks Simon's boot, obviously listening to what the rest of his boss has to say.

"What? You're not being serious! Jesus… No! The bastard! Well, I got him good, between the eyes. He ain't gonna walk away from that. See yah, Brendan."

_Brendan?_

_The truth hurts, doesn't it, boy?_

The phone clicks shut. Hands reach into Simon's jacket, hunting. Foul, brandy-laced breath assails his senses.

Simon opens his lids to gaze directly into the startled brown eyes of Doggie-dog.

"Well, Dog, how sure are you that I _ain't_ gonna walk away from this?"

Doggie-dog lets out a strangled cry, staggering back to crash against the wall.

"_Jirre_! How the…"

Sensation floods back into Simon's limbs and he sits up, slightly disorientated by the sparks that swarm across his vision. Gingerly, he probes the shattered wound in the centre of his forehead that, even as he flicks at bits of skin and bone, is closing at a preternatural rate.

"Does it matter?" Simon asks, focusing a smile on the petrified gangster before him. "But, before you die, we're going to play a little game called 'Simon says' and I reckon it's time I get a few straight answers to the questions that I'm just burnin' up to ask."


	17. With a View to Kill

The walls seemed to crush Daphne, to lean closer than they should and the stench grew too great

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

The walls seemed to crush Daphne, to lean closer than they should and the stench grew too great.

_You really should just get in your car and drive away, now, while you still have a chance._

Was speaking to Brendan such a good idea after all? He'd sounded so… cold. However, it _was_ his brother who had created this mess.

_None of this would have happened if you hadn't gone meddling with stuff that was none of your business to start with._

She stood out front, leaning back against the front door. Of course some of this would still have happened. Simon would still have broken down her front door in a frenzy, that night of the storm.

_Then the not-knowing of the mystery would have eaten you up._

Knowledge was a two-edged sword. She should have studied journalism like she'd intended to, not bloody electrical engineering.

_You should have knuckled under and finished your national diploma. You could have gone to Grahamstown and applied for a bursary for your__ journalism degree. Either way, none of _this_ would have happened._

These could-have-beens and should-have-beens were all vain regrets and she recalled the words of the young fortune teller.

_Death is a pale man._

Simone definitely fit the bill, but what was death but an agent of change?

_My life was changing just fine before Simone came along,_ Daphne thought.

"This is hopeless," she muttered beneath her breath.

She closed her eyes, instead, deciding to listen to the night. This was a game she'd been taught once while on a church camp. She blocked out everything and concentrated on just one sound, to her left, that of a cricket sawing away. The sound was dry and raspy, hesitant at the third beat of its sound cycle. There were other crickets and she assumed that they belonged to a different species, for their calls were rapid, juddering.

Listening carefully, she picked out a fourth variation before exhausting possibilities offered by the insects. The low rumble could only be the ever-present traffic on the roads and highways surrounding the neighbourhood. This was punctuated by the sharp staccato bark of a small dog down the road, most likely one of the Jack Russell terriers she'd seen before. In her mind, she built an aural picture so that any sound that occurred out of place could be noticed with ease, such as the rumbling engine of a large vehicle that she did not recognise.

Daphne was ready for Brendan when he arrived, pulling up in a gleaming black SUV with dark-tinted windows.

She rose to meet him at the gate. "Thank goodness you're here!" Her initial response had been to throw herself in his arms but she was glad that she'd held herself back. He held himself stiffly, looking from side to side before stepping onto the property.

"Have you spoken to anyone else about this?" he asked, tight-lipped, running his fingers through his close-cropped hair.

Shaking her head, Daphne ushered him inside.

"Good." Brendan reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, which he pressed against his mouth and nose while he surveyed the carnage.

He betrayed little emotion, not going within two metres of the bodies, before grunting and stepping through the double doors to the back garden.

"What now?" Daphne asked.

He regarded her with cold grey eyes, so like Simon's, yet set in softer features with a far more florid complexion. "We wait," he said, simply. "I've made a call to one of my contacts who'll be able to help us with this, um, inconvenient situation."

The man paced, paused to light a cigarette, but didn't speak with her further. Daphne had the idea to offer him coffee, then thought better of it when she glanced into the house.

"Simon knows," she said in an attempt to make conversation, to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled on them.

"Knows what?" Brendan stopped to stare at her, dragging hard at his cigarette so that the coal crackled.

"About the child, not just you and Ashleigh."

He froze, his lips parted, while smoke tendrils escaped from his lips. Brendan's tongue darted out to flick at the corner of his mouth, running his hand through his hair again.

"What do you know about the child?"

"That it's yours, that you paid for Ashleigh's funeral; that you did not have her buried near Simon."

Brendon recovered quickly, hiding the look of shock that passed over his feature momentarily. He took one last drag of his cigarette before grinding it out beneath his heel. "Simon was always the darling. He had it all, the looks, the style, the talent and the attitude. And, what did Brendan have going for him? Not much."

"Still, that doesn't give you the right to take what isn't yours."

"It takes two to tango, honey," Brendan replied, arching his brow. "Simon's little bird in her gilded cage was hardly an angel."

_But what did she see in you?_ Daphne kept her thoughts to herself.

"What, nothing to say to that?" Brendan retorted with a smirk.

Daphne shook her head. "What are you going to do now?"

Brendan gave a chuckle, an ugly sound. "I'm gonna wait for my man to finish off my stupid brother, then I'm going to get him to clean up this mess and leave no loose ends."

A dangerous tone in his voice caused Daphne's blood to run cold.

_Get out, you foolish, foolish girl,_ her instincts urged her. She backed up, making a quick calculation for her escape route. Her foot dislodged a broken tile, scraping loudly.

Brendan's eyes narrowed. He moved much quicker than she anticipated.


	18. Threnody

Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

Knowledge brings pain. Pain motivates Simon's actions. Simon's actions bring about vengeance. It is as simple as that, for him, at least. It's that, and hatred, an anger that adds fuel to the pain, twisting Simon's features into a ghastly parody of the face of a clown. He resembles more some Stone Age savage than the painted chap handing out balloons at the circus. Simon deals out death, instead.

Even Doggie-dog's death brings him little comfort. Simon's own death still plays itself out over and over again in his head, the way that Doggie-dog twists the knife, the cruel laughter, with Ashleigh's screams still ringing in his ears.

_Where will it end? There is no satisfaction after this. There is no clear-cut winner. I have had my vengeance but why is the taste so bitter?_

For once, the crow has no answers. It watches him from the picket fence outside number twenty-three Robins Street. Simon has come full circle, like the ouroboros eating its own tail.

He swears he can hear Ashleigh laughter far, in the distance, but he can't tell if she's laughing with him or _at_ him. Black exhaustion eats at him, dragging him toward the oblivion, the sleep offered by death. It would be so easy to accept, for the wave to wash over him and drag him under but he sits, a stoic sentinel holding vigil outside his old home.

The black SUV parked outside does not belong. He has a very good idea as to who the owner is. Up until now, he has been in denial as to what still needs to be done, but after his latest experience finishing off Doggie-dog, there is the certainty that the bird has been right all along.

_He's my own flesh and blood. _

The bird fixes him with its beady gaze. _Your own flesh and blood had no qualms about extinguishing the lives of its own kin._

A wordless cry chokes to silence in the back of Simon's throat. He leaps from the motorcycle, kicking over one of the black wheelie bins standing out on the pavement.

His cold fingers close around the blade sheathed in his back pocket. The weapon's weight comforts him while he stalks to the front door. It hangs off its hinges, exactly as he'd found it earlier this evening.

_Going in by the front door is too obvious,_ the bird comments.

Simon stops in his tracks, his hand resting an inch above the gate. The bird leaps to the air to settle on the side gate, on the far side of the driveway.

"So, I enter my own home like a burglar," Simon mutters beneath his breath.

_It is no longer your home. The dead have no business among the living,_ the bird rasps.

With preternatural agility, Simon vaults over the side gate, giving no notice to the splinters that embed themselves beneath his skin. He lands with feline grace, without a sound, on the hard-packed dirt, freezing until he can be certain that he has not drawn unwarranted attention to his entry.

The bird wings across to the roof on silent wings, its claws making the smallest of scratch-sounds when it settles.

The only betrayal that Simon suffers is the sudden silence of the crickets nearest him, calling from within the heart of a dead rose bush.

It is far too quiet within the house. Warm light spills out from the double doors but he cannot see any of the living move.

_Of course he's waiting for you. He knows that you're coming, since it wasn't Doggie-dog that answered his phone when Brendan called,_ the bird reminds him.

Simon frowns. He should take care when entering the house. Is Daphne still alive? He feels nothing for her but still has a sense that he should not allow her to be hurt. After all, she has not hindered him in any way. In fact, she'd partially been the reason why his success was now guaranteed.

Brendan would expect him to enter through the front door, banking on Simon's anger to make him less cautious, more predictable. His anger has settled, however, to a shimmering flame rather than a volcano threatening eruption.

He steps over the broken pavers, light, not pressing down with his full body weight on any given moment. The silence emanating from the house is oppressive, it has a sentience all of its own. Any moment now he expects an explosion and the stench of cordite. Any moment now he could be faced with Brendan's mocking laughter.

Simon pays the corpses no mind. They do not factor in his plans. They are dead. They do not move; pose no threat.

The spare bedroom reveals only its stained floors and an empty paint tin. Then, like a fool, his brother must be in the first. For an instant, Simon debates whether he should call Brendan, continue the mocking conversation he'd started before he left Dollies and Brendan had called wanting to know where his remaining cat's paw had disappeared to.

_No, that might just force his hand; make him do something to hurt Daphne. It was stupid to answer the phone before coming here. I've already lost the element of surprise._

His senses alert to every sound, every creak in this old house, he approaches the master bedroom, relishing the potential for an altercation. The door stands ajar and Simon tenses, ready to shove it open and leap through …

… to yet another empty room. He stands for a heartbeat, angry and surprised at the deception.

_Fool boy!_ the bird scolds, gliding into the room to peck at the laces of a discarded sneaker_. What did you expect, a welcoming committee?_

With a muttered oath, Simon spins around, ducking into the passage, to confront his brother who stands laughing at him from the bathroom.

Brendan supports an unconscious Daphne, who slumps over his arm, a large bruise already forming on her temple. Simon holds a pistol to her jaw, a maniacal grin plastered across his features.

"Looking for this?" he cackles, shaking the woman's body, "or are you looking for me?"

"Let her go!" Simon spits, striding forward. "I have business with _you_, not her."

"Aah, but brother dearest, you find me in a bit of a predicament. If I let her go, I lose my shield."

"And if you kill her, you're in a similar predicament. Let her go!"

"How about we play a little game? Why don't you just lie down and die, like a good little corpse?" Brendan moves with alacrity, pointing the gun at Simon and pulling the trigger quicker than Simon can cover the intervening distance.

The roar of the weapon is deafening at such close quarters and the force of the bullet's impact knocks Simon off his feet, sending him sprawling backward.

He sits up, pausing for a moment to examine the hole in his chest before glaring up at his brother. "That was a mistake."

Once again the gun is pointed at Daphne. Brendan's knuckles are white and the weapon shakes.

Simon cackles. "Give it up. Bullets won't stop me, neither knives, nor fire nor all your pitiful attempts at preventing the inevitable. We all die, brother, but our choosing of the time and manner is a rare gift that you should not squander. I may yet show you the mercy that you did not offer to Ashleigh or me."

"Go to hell! Attack me and I'll shoot her!"

Simon laughs, a chilling sound. "I am already in hell, but you won't kill her. I know you. You've always had someone else do your dirty work. That has ever been your fatal flaw."

Simon rises to his feet, leaning against the wall.

"Don't come any closer! I'll shoot you again. You don't know me anymore!"

The gun shakes. Brendan is undecided and he wavers. Should he shoot Simon or should he make good on his threat to shoot Daphne. Either way it's a catch-twenty-two situation. His finger tightens on the trigger.

The wail of sirens grows audible. Both men pause to listen and this is the instant that Daphne surprises both by making her move, twisting in Brendan's grip to fall to the ground amid the mess of entrails belonging to the unlucky corpse.

"Bastard!" she screams, landing a lucky blow that catches Brendan on his kneecap.

Simon chooses this turn of events to surge forward, a bestial snarl escaping from his throat. The gun is fired and this time it is Brendan who collapses, clutching at his thigh.

Simon connects with him and they slide through the gore, in a tangle of limbs, into the bathroom. Simon's hand snakes out to trap his brother's hand that still clings to the gun, his free hand closing around Brendan's throat.

"Get out!" he roars at Daphne who, obeys, staggering wide-eyed down the passage, eager to do Simon's bidding.

"Good, now it is just the two of us, brother mine. I guess it's too late to apologise for always having given you the benefit of the doubt."


	19. Aftermath

Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr

**Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.**

XXX

Sobbing, Daphne twisted her ankle painfully as she stumbled out the front door, blinded by tears. In her need to escape, she broke the latch of the front gate and fell hard on the street's tarmac, heedless of any vehicles that may choose this moment to drive past.

The scream of sirens grew louder, drowning out what rational thought remained. Her knees and palms burnt where she'd skinned them. It was all happening too quickly, the rising nausea, the scream of tires, the slamming of doors, then the single rapport of a gunshot, freezing the moment, echoing from inside the house.

XXX

_It has been said that there are those who are so burdened by sorrow and guilt, that their souls can never rest, that they are doomed to wander the earth forever. _

_Call him Cain, kinslayer or name him The Wandering Jew, it does not matter, for he is accursed among men._

XXX

It took Daphne a long time to pluck up the courage to drive out to Maitland Cemetery again. In the end, she hadn't taken that job, she'd taken Detective Botha up on his offer of a place to stay with one of the ladies from his church and she had spent weeks resting and coming to terms with what had taken place during her short stay in Observatory.

Today she'd felt restless for the first time in an eternity of quiet contemplation. She still didn't have any answers.

She bought a single red rose from one of the flower-sellers at the gate and made her way down the gravel-strewn pathways to the distorted acacia that shaded Simon de Villiers' final resting place.

She did not know what to expect, yet somehow it did not surprise her to see that the hole had not been filled, that sand had soften its edges and seeped into ragged wound. No one had bothered to remove the splintered remains of the coffin wood, which stuck out like broken teeth with tarnished bronze handles – that vandals had not stolen, to her surprise.

_Too superstitious._

Daphne grimaced and placed the rose on the headstone, feeling the need to get away from this unholy place with its disturbed earth. She shivered, noting the crow that watched her from a low bough. It was time to leave.

XXX

Author's note:

Many thanks to Epi and to Wend who gave me such super concrit. You've definitely helped me improve aspects of my writing.


End file.
